


The Prodigal

by cynical21



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 81,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2084529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dating from that infamous day in a Theed power station, paths diverge, promises are broken; then fate - and deliberate mischief - step in, and destiny thwarted takes its pound of flesh. Warning: there will be many who will NOT agree with the premise of this story, and that is their privilege, just as it is mine to write it as I see fit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning _ if you're looking for fluff and fairy tale endings, you're definitely in the wrong place.

The Prodigal

_All things that are,_  
_Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d._  
_How like a younker or a prodigal_  
_The scarfed bark puts from her native bay_ ,  
_Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind!_  
_How like the prodigal doth she return,_  
_With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails_ ,  
_Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind!_

_The Merchant of Venice_ – William Shakespeare

*********** ****************** 

 

In the more remote reaches of the galaxy, far beyond the argent glitter of the core worlds, vast drifts of darkness loitered in illusions of time suspended, scattered at random among discrete swarms of radiance, wells of blackest night where any light that managed to exist was insipid and fleeting, and the only suggestion of the existence of the star-swarm of the galaxy was a faint band of pearlescence that only seemed to be visible from the corner of the observing eye. A turn of the head and a shift to direct focus served only to dissipate the illusory glow, simultaneously causing the darkness to thicken and flex and tighten its hungry grip on the senses.

The scope of such great stretches of emptiness was difficult for sentient minds to grasp; intelligence, somehow, seemed to resist the acknowledgement of something so vast and menacing, yet totally without purpose, and, over the years, the phenomena had taken on an aura of myth and legend and superstition, prompting lurid imaginations to populate the gigantic, looming darkness with interstellar versions of sea monsters and supernatural horrors. The legends and ghost stories grew steadily more gruesome and less pragmatic with every passing year, and were a source of endless inspiration for the fodder of holo-vids and pulp fiction.

The tall tales were – mostly – untrue and the monsters – mostly – non-existent, but no one ever tried to deny the legitimate concerns of those forced to venture into the voids, which remained mostly uncharted and strewn with spacial obstacles and nameless perils and pits of black matter that appeared and disappeared in a manner so random that any effort at mapping was doomed to failure. But while the metaphysical aspects of the danger were almost entirely the product of imaginations run rampant, the physical hazards were only too real. Thus any interstellar traveler finding itself stranded within the wells of darkness, relentlessly cut off from the comfort of starlight, had excellent cause for alarm.

Uncertainty and fear dwelled within the embrace of endless night.

And death waited with eager, fleshless fingers, to snag the unwary.

In the surprisingly symmetrical arrangement of the galactic spiral, the vastly disproportionate number of such voids in the outer half of the Tingel Arm was a mathematical anomaly which had inspired endless speculation and countless astronomical theories over the centuries, but, in the end, the simple truth was that no one could ever really explain the plenitude of black drifts scattered around and between the two major trade routes that terminated in the semi-civilized sprawl of the Corporate Sector. Because of the profusion of such navigational hazards, the earlier days of galactic exploration saw the loss of thousands of vessels in the dark, barren wastelands, and gravitic tides within the voids resulted in the gradual accumulation of ghostly fleets of gutted, demolished ships, forever drifting in formation, like partners in some macabre dance of death.

Over the centuries, those who made their livings plying trade routes – both legal and not – that skirted the dead zones christened them accordingly: Hangman’s Knot; Poison Flats; Beggar’s Wasteland; Smuggler’s Doom; Sarl’cca Badlands; Skull Shoals; the Doldrums; Demon’s Lair. These were the largest, the most notorious, but there were dozens more, recognized by all who possessed a modicum of the common wisdom known as space savvy, as deathtraps, to be avoided at all costs in the course of legitimate enterprise – and to be utilized accordingly in less licit pursuits.

For many long years, the loss of life and cargo and ships continued unabated, considered an unavoidable consequence of exploration and expansion, symptomatic of a frontier mentality. Vestiges of civilization developed only slowly in areas where the reach of law vastly exceeded its grasp.

Finally, inexorably, it was the Grand Republic that took measures to remedy a situation that had become unacceptable.

It took almost sixty Coruscanti years to complete the project, and the cost was ultimately so exorbitant that the Senate elected not to compute the final totals; it was simply better not to know. But for those who adjudged the value of sentient life as being beyond simple monetary computations, the Sanctuary System was worth every daktari spent, and every life lost in its completion. For lives _were_ lost during the construction of the series of waystations that dared to intrude into the great darknesses – lives and futures and vast resources but, in the end, eight of the huge, helical refuges were locked into stationary positions in the most isolated sections of the voids. Huge, autonomic installations generated beacons of hope in the emptiness, each installation capable of supporting upwards of 100,000 beings and providing tech support for hundreds of vessels, with refueling and emergency repair capabilities, staff and equipment for deep space rescue operations, functional medical facilities equivalent to any to be found in a small city, technical and astronautical research labs, and housing for administrative and law enforcement staffs to augment those of any local or regional authorities – a not so small city, defying the hostile environment of space.

Challenging fate.

The eight were designed to address the needs of the individual areas in which they were placed, varying in size and form to fit required function. Thus the largest of them – designated Deeps Haven 3 – was anchored to the gravitational field of a massive ferrous globe, a lifeless rogue planet flung away from its exploding primary in a time lost long before the records of pre-history, that sat almost dead center of the Doldrums – the largest of the dead zones, and, because of its position almost exactly half way between the Hydian Way and the Perlemian Trade Route, the most heavily traveled.

It was a huge construct, composed of curved sheets of cast durinium, polished to a hard, obsidian luster, interspersed with convex sweeps of thick transparisteel, and studded with reflectors and strobes and hundreds of thousands of lights, in thousands of shapes and forms and configurations, all with a single purpose – to turn back the night, to defeat the clinging touch of darkness. It was continuously abustle with commerce and traffic and departures/arrivals and cargos shifted ship-to-dock and dock-to-ship, and space-weary crews plunging headlong into the swirl of the crowds, to locate and sample the delights and debaucheries of a liberty port, and passengers embarking and debarking and, occasionally, just standing with mouths agape, completely disoriented by the ever-escalating levels of confusion.

Within a very few years of its completion, it had become a focal point for sentient life, a microcosm of cultural diversity, a hybrid creation that combined the grandest ambitions – and the most primitive appetites – of the beings who gave it life. It was a home for dreams and for those who lived only to crush the dreamers. Drug lords, crime syndicates, smuggling rings, slave traders – all had occasion to seek entry from time to time; even to find sufficient privacy and discretion to allow them to conduct their illicit affairs, but none lingered for long. Petty thieves, pickpockets, pimps and prostitutes, and gamblers carved permanent niches for themselves in low-level habitat areas where station staffers frequently turned a blind eye to the kind of misdemeanor-level crime that was common to all pockets of civilization across the galaxy; the underbelly of the great beast was a thriving market of opportunity and opportunists, who were wise enough to recognize the prevailing limits of acceptable larceny. Those who took care to adapt themselves to the social balances of the station were grateful for the security of their existence and appreciative of being allowed to function without overweaning intervention from the ruling authorities; those, on the other hand, who chose to defy the established order and attempt to upset the existing balance, were quickly shown the folly of their actions – and the exit.

The station was administered, in matters mundane, by a staff of Republic bureaucrats – highly trained, rigidly structured, and nicely compensated, under the direction of the Station Governor – but justice and security, along with other less publicly-acknowledged but probably more vital functions, were reserved to the command staff of the base.

Said staff members wore the deep gray and ivory uniform of the Republic Intelligence Service, and spent an inordinate amount of time studying and sorting massive amounts of data, gathered from thousands of sources from all over the galaxy, and co-ordinating it with information garnered from the data systems of the station itself. The incredibly complex system was unique to the installation, custom-designed by highly skilled technicians, working hand-in-glove with empathic bio-designers, in an attempt to achieve replication of sentient thought processes. The project was ongoing, constantly growing and evolving; it had not yet been declared a complete success, but every day brought the team of scientists and technocrats closer to their goal.

The computer/info system staff spent much of its time walking around in a state of distracted euphoria, literally - on occasion - colliding with walls and unwary pedestrians; everyone else regarded them with indulgence, only rarely lapsing into annoyance with their absent-minded bumbling.

Base command, in particular, went to extraordinary measures to remove any obstacles from their meandering paths and to protect them from their own distractions. 

All in all, the command staff was incredibly efficient, extremely intelligent, and totally dedicated, and, beyond the amazing proficiency with which they performed their tasks, there was nothing to distinguish them from any group of RIS operatives on any world of the Republic.

Except for one thing.

On average, less than one out of ten of them carried the obligatory heavy-duty blaster that was the customary weapon-of-choice for such RIS staffers, and even those who did, treated it as a secondary option; instead, they carried slender, cylindrical objects, metal-encased, individually customized and perfectly balanced for the hand of the carrier, and etched with cryptic runes and symbols, each slightly different from every other, affixed to their belts with thin strips of leather.

It was not something that was the subject of common gossip; it was not even something that was known to many of those who had occasion to visit the facility. But it _was_ known to all who resided there, and most who had cause to be grateful for interventions which had saved lives and property from the perils of the void.

It was the Republic which prepared docking schedules, and assigned quarters, and supervised cargo transfers, and requisitioned foodstuffs and supplies to maintain the station, who checked manifests and verified ship’s registries and inspected immigration documents and co-ordinated humanitarian missions with philanthropic endeavors, but it was the Jedi who monitored the identities and actions of those who passed through its portals and reacted to the cataclysmic events that sometimes transpired beyond its walls.

It was the Jedi who kept it safe.

 

*************** *************** ****************

 

Jedi Master Adi Gallia allowed herself a soft sigh, as she stood before the sweep of transparisteel that overlooked the Trilby-Crescent Sector approach to Deeps Haven 3, enjoying the deep shadowy ambiance of the executive office in which she stood, broken only by low level ornamental lighting located among urns of luxuriant greenery in opposing corners of the room. Despite the fact that there was very little of natural splendor to be found in the vista before her, other than the thick, impenetrable quality of the darkness, there was a grandeur in the view that brought a flutter to her heart. It wasn’t exactly beautiful, but it _was_ a tribute to the tenacity and the determination of those who had dared to defy the odds and create this monstrosity in the void.

Her host would be along soon; her stern admonition to the Dock Supervisor had made sure of that. But she would take this one moment and allow herself to taste the swell of pride and the indomitable spirit of the polyglot of races that had produced this great achievement – Grans and Bothans and Rodians and Wookiees and Quarrens and dozens of humanoid species and many more, from all over the known galaxy – joined in a great army to battle the hostility of space, and win. It was a great victory, and the Jedi had been a part of it from the beginning, as designers and contractors and engineers and technical advisors – even, on occasion, as sheer muscle. 

It existed now as testimony to the power of the will of the people.

She watched the approach of a sleek passenger liner with Corellian markings, and was silhouetted by the strobe of running lights as the vessel adjusted its approach angle to intercept magnetic moorings.

So absorbed was she in the silent choreography playing out before her that an unprecedented event occurred. She was momentarily unaware of the slender figure that materialized in the gloom of the open doorway behind her and unaware as the new arrival paused to reflect that time had been very, very kind to Master Gallia.

“The first time I saw you, I thought I’d never seen anyone so beautiful.”

She spun to confront the speaker and fought, without success, to contain her smile.

He stepped forward quickly, and took her hand which he raised to his lips. “I was right,” he murmured, “and I still am.”

She resisted for a moment, before breaking into her trademark husky chuckle. “You’re a fine one to talk,” she said softly, reaching up to brace his face with her fingers. “You still take my breath away.”

He smiled, but chose to offer no other response, other than a quizzical lift of one eyebrow.

She stepped back and drank in the sight of him and observed, as in days long past, what a lovely sight it was.

“Commander Kenobi,” she said with a diffident grin, taking in the tumble of loose, ginger locks falling past his shoulders, the dark, close fitted slacks, polished black boots, and the silky creaminess of the long-sleeved shirt which was only partially tucked in and gaped open at the throat, revealing a well-muscled chest with a light drift of soft, coppery curls, “you’re out of uniform.”

“Well,” he replied, drawling slightly, “it _is_ the middle of the night here, and you did tell my midwatch com-officer that you wanted to see me immediately.”

The voice was exactly as she remembered – warm and cultured and luscious - and those notorious chameleon eyes – dark aquamarine in this light – were moist, almost dewy, and somehow artless, like a child freshly wakened from an afternoon nap. She was instantly reminded of the description once whispered by Master Depa Billaba after sitting through a mission report delivered by Obi-Wan when he was still just a padawan learner, barely qualifying as an adult. “Deliciously edible and eminently fuckable.”

Her grin grew broader. “I expected to catch you in a dressing gown.”

“Sorry,” he replied, almost winking. “I wasn’t asleep.”

She moved to take a seat in a chrome and leather easy chair, crossing long, elegant legs and allowing the rich raw silk of her cape to fan out around her, as she studied his face and tested the air around him, observing that, at this wee hour, he certainly should have been sleeping, unless he had been engaged in something a bit more athletic. Inhaling gently, she noted a hint of Corellian brandy clinging to him, a lingering trace of some sort of spiced soap, a barely-there suggestion of polished leather, and a surprisingly distinctive nuance of pure Obi-Wan Kenobi, the very same scent which had distinguished his physical presence for as long as she could remember, but not the slightest hint of male musk, so, whatever she had interrupted, it had probably not involved a sexual partner; at least – not yet. She resisted the urge to take a deeper breath, recalling a remark once made by the young Jedi’s Master, that his padawan’s natural scent was superior to anything from a bottle.

She focused on his eyes then and was surprised to note that he was performing his own discreet inspection.

“You really look wonderful, Adi,” he remarked, “though not very Jedi.”

Her eyes were huge and shadowed. “Looking Jedi isn’t always a good idea these days.”

He nodded. “Yes. I know.”

She braced her elbows on the chair arms and clasped her fingers as she studied his face, noting that while time had done nothing to dim the classic masculine beauty of those perfect features, something else _had_ touched him. There were faint vertical lines on his forehead, and pale shadows beneath his eyes. “Yes. That’s why I’m here, you know.”

He moved to a small console behind the freeform sweep of his desk, and removed a crystal decanter and two small snifters. “That’s not very informative,” he said softly, as he poured dark, fragrant Corellian brandy. “I find it hard to believe that the Master of the Jedi Intelligence branch would come all the way to Deeps Haven 3 for advice on how to dress to avoid detection.”

She smiled as she accepted the glass, and watched the dark amber of the liquid swirl near the rim. “No, you’re right. But she _would_ come all the way out here – especially if she just happened to be in the quadrant – when her Sector Chief, who was placed on restricted duty status almost four years ago, suddenly assigns himself to high risk, solo missions.”

She had to admire his ability to mask his emotions; none in the Order, other than Yoda, were as skilled as she was in the penetration of mental shielding, and she was able to perceive absolutely nothing within his consciousness, following a very quick, barely noticeable grimace. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

He dropped into his plush-padded desk chair, and propped his feet on the gleaming surface of his desk, and she simply sat back and enjoyed the view. “These were executive judgment calls. I didn’t think it justified . . .”

“Don’t even bother,” she snapped quickly. “I may not qualify as a Temple babe any more, Obi-Wan, but I’m certainly not senile. There was a reason you were restricted from active duty, and you _agreed_ to abide by my decision. You actually did abide by it, until two cycles ago. Then – out of the blue – you take on three back-to-back undercover assignments, _without back-up_. Sweet mother mynocks! Have you completely lost your mind?”

He avoided meeting her eyes, and lifted his snifter to his mouth. Quick as a striking serpent, she leapt forward and grabbed his hand as a fine tremor rose in his wrist and fingers and set the dark liquid shivering within the crystal goblet. “And this rather proves my point, doesn’t it?”

He sighed, and paused to consider his answer. “It hasn’t been so bad lately. And these missions . . .”

“Could have been assigned to any of a dozen different operatives, every one of them more than qualified and competent to perform the required tasks.” She fell silent, more bothered than she cared to admit by the stridency in her tone – and waited.

But he remained stubbornly mute, any emotion that might have been visible in luminescent eyes concealed beneath a thick sweep of lashes.

She decided to change tactics, and made a conscious effort to release her anxiety and her irritation into the Force, and to infuse her voice with the intimacy and affection that had brought her to the outpost in the first place. “I thought you’d finally given up on finding a way to kill yourself.”

She had the satisfaction then, of seeing and identifying the quicksilver emotion that flared in his eyes, but it was hardly what she would have expected. He smiled, unable to conceal his amusement and the rise of his sardonic wit. “Funny how that never seemed to bother you when it was beneficial to the mission.”

“Wrong, Sweets,” she replied, finding it suddenly difficult to speak around the lump in her throat. “It always bothered _me_.”

He was far too astute not to notice the inflection, but he chose not to address it, moving slightly in his chair, as if to embrace the shadows around him.

Time, perhaps, for a change of subject. “By the Force,” she said quickly, “you’ve gotten good at that. Too good, maybe.”

“Good at what?” The words were bland, but the smile in his eyes grew warmer.

She was startled into a burst of laughter. “You know very well ‘what’. I can barely distinguish your Force presence, and I’m sitting a meter away, looking straight at you. If I weren’t, I doubt I could detect you at all. I’m impressed.”

He shrugged, and the soft lighting caressed his profile with a soft glimmer. “A useful tool for intelligence work,” he replied, obviously under-whelmed. 

“Useful, certainly,” she agreed, “but dangerous, I think. A source of over-confidence, and we both know what a fatal mistake _that_ can be.”

He nodded then, and slouched a bit farther into his chair, but his eyes grew sharper, bringing to bear the considerable power of his concentration on his inspection of her expression. “Spit it out, Adi. What are you really doing here?”

“It should be obvious. I came to put a stop to . . .”

“You could have done that by com-link,” he interrupted, “or even with a note appended to my regular orders.”

Something soft, almost vulnerable, flickered in her eyes. “But you might have ignored that.”

He thought for a moment. “I might have,” he agreed, “but your personal visit doesn’t preclude that possibility. When you go, I could still choose to ignore the order. It’s a tired but true old maxim that isolated outposts like this tend to encourage a certain . . . creative interpretation of regulations. So – why are you really here?”

She allowed herself a soft sigh. “Because I want to know why. Something’s happened. Something has changed to set you back on this path that almost killed you four years ago. I want to know what it is.”

With a jerky abruptness in marked contrast to his customary supple grace, he rose and moved to stand before the expanse of the observation port, and she was immediately sure that he spent a lot of time in that position, gazing out into the void. Instantly, a memory image flared in her mind. He had been younger then – almost nine years younger – but she’d never forgotten his response when she’d asked him if there was anything she could do to help ease his anguish, just after the loss of his Master and his own knighting.

_“Sometimes,” he’d replied, “the only thing you can do is stand still – and let it hurt.”_

At the time, she had believed – and so had he – that the hurt would, eventually, ease to a bearable level, but now, as she noted the rigid lines of his body, she wondered.

It seemed that he was still forcing himself to ‘stand still’.

Without conscious thought, she rose and moved to stand behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso and pressing her face against his back. She sensed something then, a brief brush of memory, and was instantly charmed to note that a faint blush was rising in his face.

_They had been stranded on Ther’quit 4, following a rescue mission that had gone so wrong it defied analysis. Of course, once they’d figured out that the party to be rescued had, in fact, been an active participant in the original abduction, everything had become easy to understand, but not so easy to survive. So, when they had finally managed to escape from the terrorists’ compound and make their way to a remote island where they were able to send a signal requesting extraction, the fact that they would have to wait several days for pick up had seemed trivial. With a sense of wonder and the exhilaration of having survived against overwhelming odds, they had set out to explore their little refuge, and been grateful for semi-tropical weather, abundant fresh water, soft sand and plentiful vegetation, and the bounty of the sea._

_He had been just twenty-five years old then, and, though his eyes had never quite regained their luminous quality after the debacle of Naboo, he had still been almost painfully beautiful, and no less hormonally-driven than any other young human male – Jedi or not. And she – well – she had certainly been older, but a long way from menopausal, and as eager for exploration as he._

_They had succumbed to temptation on the second day, lying in the sand with the tide lapping at their bodies, and, on cold, lonely nights when her sense of duty was not quite sufficient to dispel the chill and ease her discomfort, she still savored the image of that strong, golden body, stroked with sunlight and caressed by the jeweled fingers of the sea, and the memory of the taste of his lips and the feel of his skin and the sensation of being stroked and, finally, filled with that glorious, thick, throbbing manhood. In the days that followed, she had confirmed – and reconfirmed – the conclusion that Depa’s description had been absolutely accurate; he was indeed deliciously edible and eminently, exquisitely fuckable._

She smiled, sensing his physiological response to the same memory. “Nice to see I can still make you blush.”

He looked down, allowing a drift of hair to cover his expression. “It appears you can still make me do . . . several things.”

When he covered her hands with his own, she once more noted the tremor in his left arm. “But can I make you do what I want you to do, Commander Kenobi? Can I make you obey my direct order?”

His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Do you intend to actually make it a direct order?”

She stepped away from him then and moved to stand beside him. “Technically, I think I did that four years ago, but, if you think you’ve found a loophole, let me assure you that I’ll do whatever I must to close it.”

She looked up at him then, and waited until he was forced to meet her eyes. “No more field missions, Obi-Wan. None – no matter how you choose to justify it to yourself. Understood?”

She hesitated then, and was aware of a curious flexing in the Force, a tremor that suggested that this was a critical moment, no matter how mundane it might seem, adding to a growing store of evidence she had amassed – all of it circumstantial and/or subjective, but compelling nonetheless - which indicated that this young man had a vital role to play in whatever the future might hold, provided, of course, she could convince him to stay alive to experience it.

“I understand,” he replied finally.

“And?”

“I’ll abide by your orders.”

She sighed again. He had not added, “For now”, but she had heard it anyway.

“Tell me what’s happened,” she urged. “I need to hear it, and I think it’s possible that you might need to say it.”

His eyes brightened with a gleam of speculation. “T’herra called you, didn’t he?”

She moved back to her chair, and dropped into it as if suddenly rendered boneless. “You are not to retaliate against him. Honestly, Obi-Wan, you managed to scare the shit out of your second-in-command. He thought you were going psychotic, or something.”

He turned and stalked back to his desk, and she could see the anger coursing through him, expressed in the tightly controlled economy of his movements. But he drew a deep breath, and managed to channel most of his resentment into the Force; it was a skill he’d learned at a young age, at the knee of his maverick Master. “He should learn to mind his own business,” he muttered.

“You _are_ his business, Hon,” she retorted. “And you still haven’t answered my question. I’m not going to just go away, you know. If I must, I’ll drag you back to Coruscant and turn you over to Mirilent’s tender mercies, but I hope that won’t be necessary.”

He looked up then, and she tried desperately to double, even triple, the mental shielding surrounding certain areas of her mind, but knew it was futile as realization dawned in his eyes.

“She told you,” he said flatly.

There was little point in denying it. “Yes. She did. But only me, Obi-Wan, and only after she was convinced that it was necessary, in order to protect you. Even from yourself, if necessary.”

_Mirilent Soljan, Jedi healer and self-appointed mother-protector of Obi-Wan Kenobi since his earliest days in the crèche, had come to Deeps Haven 3 when the young knight had been retrieved, more dead than alive, from the hell-hole of Draegis Minor, a pestilent, lawless, violent, Hutt-controlled world where he had been betrayed into the hands of a vicious warlord, and tortured to the point at which death would have been a kindness. For three lunar cycles, the tiny Bimar healer had worked tirelessly to save his life and, once that was accomplished, to rebuild his horribly mutilated body. In the end, her efforts had been successful – mostly. Due to his own fierce determination and his strength in the Force, he had managed to shield his mind from the torment inflicted on him, and disperse most of his agony into the Force, but there had been, finally, just too much damage, too many wounds. The neural fibers of most of his body had been disrupted, even destroyed completely in some areas, and Mirilent’s greatest challenge had involved restoring and even regrowing the tissues. The degree of her success had been remarkable, but anything less than full and complete recovery had been regarded as abject failure by the healer._

_He would survive. He would remain as completely Jedi as he had ever been. He would regain almost all of his abilities and his physical prowess, and his intellect and instincts and ability to access the Force remained intact._

_But his left arm would remain forever subject to periodic weakness and some loss of fine motor skills, which would directly impact his dexterity with a lightsaber. He could – and would – learn to adapt to one-handed methods, but it would leave him vulnerable to multi-pronged attacks and unable to defend against energy weapons in the hands of multiple assailants._

_His prodigious skill with his lightsaber had been one of the abilities that enabled him to perform the incredibly complex, invariably dangerous tasks assigned to him._

_One of his greatest strengths had been transformed into an unacceptable risk._

_Mirilent had spent days and then weeks in a state of perpetual, inconsolable mourning over her inability to give back the gifts that had been taken from him. It had been a measure of the relationship between them that, in the end, it had been the battered young knight who had provided comfort and solace for the healer._

_And then she had discovered one more thing, previously concealed from her, and what had been barely tolerable was suddenly worse than anything she might ever have conceived._

_The gruff little healer – known throughout the Order for a horrible bedside manner – ordinarily concentrated on physical trauma; she had little experience or expertise in emotional and spiritual injury. Thus, when she had stumbled across the dark, swollen mass that was buried deep in Obi-Wan’s consciousness, she had been initially horrified that the wound might have been a product of the torture he’d endured, a product that she had failed to find in her preliminary examination. But, when realization overwhelmed her, she found herself wishing desperately that she had been right – that it had been something resulting from his latest trauma – something she might have found a way to remedy. Something_ – anything – _other than what it actually was._

_Not new. Not inflicted by cruel, vicious perverts who seemed to feed on the generation of pain. Not a result of external action at all. And, perhaps most terrible of all, not treatable._

_Old and familiar and well-established._

_The torn and still bleeding remnant of a soul-bond._

_The tiny Bimar had reeled under the weight of the knowledge. All those years. How had he survived for all those years? The pain that he must have endured was beyond imagining; some would have said beyond enduring. The soul-bond, unique to those strong in the Force, was a thing of great beauty, greatly treasured, and very rare, but it was also a harsh mistress. Those joined in such a bond were considered blessed by the Force, but when such a bond was broken, whether through the death of one of the bonded or – much more rarely – through deliberate intervention, the results were devastating. Few survived the experience, and even those who did were frequently so traumatized that they lapsed into catatonic stupor, never to emerge._

_Yet Obi-Wan had lived and functioned, and, until this sad progression of events, concealed his psychic wounds from everyone, finding his own means of enduring what could not be cured._

_Mirilent had confronted him, compelled to try to ease his suffering, but, in the end, she had been forced to yield to his logic. There was nothing to be done to provide relief, beyond the biofeedback methods he had developed on his own, and any attempt to bring in other healers, other advisors, would necessitate the approval of the Jedi Council._

_He had knelt before the tiny Bimar and begged her indulgence. His duty, he’d said, was all he had left. If she went to the Order and reported her findings, they would recall him to the Temple, and he would have nothing._

_In the end, she had found she could not deny him. She had loved him for too long, and much too well; she could not take away his last reason for living._

Obi-Wan smiled. “You didn’t tell the Council. I’m astonished, but very grateful.”

“Well, don’t nominate me for sainthood or anything. My motives were strictly selfish. I need you, Obi-Wan. You’re incredibly good at what you do, and I don’t want to have to train a replacement.”

“How did you get her to confess?”

It was Adi’s turn to smile. “Mirilent only has one weakness, Hon. You. I went to consult her when I learned what was going on here, and she was afraid that something had happened to aggravate the torn bond. So she told me, and I think she went through the tortures of the damned in making up her mind to do so. So let’s not waste her suffering, shall we? Tell me what’s happened.”

Once more, he looked out through the viewport, but his eyes remained unfocused, as if he were seeing something much farther away. “Nothing’s happened,” he said finally. “It just . . . surges sometimes. Reminds me that it’s there. And, when it does, it takes some readjusting, before I can contain it again.”

Adi regarded him in solemn silence, realizing that the moment was unprecedented. He had just lied to her, and she didn’t think he’d ever done that before.

Time to switch tactics.

“You know,” she said softly, “we’ve talked about almost everything in our lives over the years. Everything we’ve done, everything we’ve believed. Our exploits and victories and disappointments. But there’s one thing we never talked about, and I think it’s something we need to share. I need to understand you, Obi-Wan. Need to be able to put myself in your place, so I know where you are, and how you got there.”

“Adi,” he replied with a sardonic grin, “you’re sounding very metaphysical, and you’re scaring the crap out of me.”

“That day,” she said firmly. “That day – in the Council chambers.”

The warmth in his eyes died immediately, and there was only the glint of blue ice in their depths. “Well, there’s obviously no need for you to specify _which_ day. That notorious day, that’s carved in stone in Jedi history. What do you want to know?”

“I think,” she answered gently, “that I might already know more than anyone else who was present that day, other than you and Qui-Gon, of course. Because I happened to be looking in the right direction, at the right moment. I think everyone else was watching your Master and the boy, but I was looking at you.” She favored him with a loving smile. “Being female – and human – I opted for the better view.”

The stern set of his features revealed that he was not in the mood to be amused. “And what is it that you thought you saw?”

She closed her eyes, to recall that poignant moment. “First, shock, disbelief. Then, the pain of betrayal. And then, on top of that, a surge of pure rage – all within the space of a heartbeat, And, finally, the determination that you would endure what you had to endure. You were Jedi, right down to the marrow of your bones, and you would _not_ behave otherwise. Did I miss anything?”

Finally, after a moment of pregnant silence, he smiled. “Not bad. Although maybe not quite in the degree you probably expected.”

She shifted in her chair, drawing a slender leg up under her for more comfort. “Go on.”

He stretched out further and braced the back of his head against the neckrest of his chair. “I was shocked, but only because of the timing.”

“How do you mean?”

His sigh was very soft. “I’m not sure if I can make you understand, but I’ll try. After the initial sting of it, I wasn’t really surprised, because it was all part and parcel of the man my Master was. I won’t pretend it wasn’t painful, and I won’t pretend I wasn’t angry enough to take him apart with my bare hands, but, in the end, I was forced to admit to myself that I should have expected it.”

She shook her head. “You should have expected him to toss you aside without a second thought, to reject you with one hand and usher in your replacement with the other? I’m sorry, but I don’t see . . .”

“No,” he agreed, “”You wouldn’t see it. No one could see it or understand it, who didn’t know him, almost better than he knew himself. It was who he was. When all was said and done, Qui-Gon Jinn was a tool of the Force, and he believed with his whole heart that he was chosen to follow its will. The simple truth was that he didn’t discard me – not in his own mind. He simply . . . stopped seeing me. When Qui-Gon insisted, as he often did, that focus determined reality, he meant it quite literally. He didn’t just throw me away. He simply forgot that I existed. I faded into the background, when something more vital, more intense, grabbed his attention.”

She tried not to stare at him in open-mouthed wonder but didn’t think she succeeded very well. “And you just . . . accepted that?”

He broke into a lopsided grin. “Not exactly. After the session, I went tearing down to one of the more secluded training salles, and activated three Stage 7 combat droids, which I proceeded to reduce to piles of molecular rubble. Master Qyudarth, who was the techno/quartermaster for that cycle, still sends me a bill every year or two. So much for releasing my anger into the Force.”

“Did it work?” she asked gently.

“I guess it did. I was able to resist the urge to reduce _him_ to a pile of molecular rubble.”

“And after that?”

“After that – and a rather unpleasant confrontation on the landing platform – I spent some time alone, trying to center myself. Trying to find it within myself to accept what I knew I couldn’t change. Finally, after some intense meditation, I was able to accept the truth.”

“What truth?”

He turned again to look out the viewport, and she sensed that he had arrived at a critical memory nexus – old and painful. “I came to Qui-Gon, when he first agreed to train me, bearing old wounds – a fact I’m sure you’re aware of. And I even compounded some of those wounds at various times during our association, but I did, finally, by the hardest, come to realize that I was a reasonably gifted padawan, that I was adequate for the needs of the Order, and that I was not a huge disappointment to my Master. Usually. And yet I was finally forced to admit, as we sped back toward Naboo, that I had always known that such a moment would come – not because of my own shortcomings, but because I knew that, sooner or later, the Force would guide him toward a destiny that didn’t include me. Occasionally, I’d had moments of precognition over the years, which Qui-Gon always scoffed at, so I learned early to keep them to myself, but they almost always proved to be accurate. So, when tiny little glimpses of future events flashed in my mind, and whispered that he would one day leave me, and find his true calling, I couldn’t ignore the truth of it. Because of what he was.”

“And what exactly was he?” asked Adi, her tone sharper than she’d intended, as she tried to swallow the surging anger that swelled within her. He sounded so unemotional, so pragmatic, that she might almost have believed that he had been able to sublimate the hurt that must have accompanied his true seeings. Almost.

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” he said with a diffident smile, “was a religious fanatic.”

“Oh, please,” she snapped. “You can’t believe that. That’s a miserable excuse for behaving like a bantha’s ass.”

“I’m dead serious,” he replied, maddeningly calm. “Oh, not in the sense of bowing down to idols, or sacrificing virgins on a sacred altar. Not that kind of religious mania. But think about his absolute conviction that the Force willed the Jedi to act in certain ways, willed him to do certain things, to follow certain paths. To be a willing instrument in the accomplishment of chosen destinies. Don’t you see, Adi. Qui-Gon was the perfect vessel for the Force; he heard only its voice, and, under its guidance, he was incapable of feeling or seeing or thinking anything else.” 

She looked down quickly then, hoping he had not glimpsed the rise of tears in her eyes. “You loved him very much, didn’t you?”

He grinned. “Well, that’s certainly no secret.”

“Did he love you?”

The grin vanished quickly. “As much as he was capable of loving anyone. Yes, I think he did.”

“But not the way you would have wanted?”

His sigh was feather soft. “No. Not the way I wanted. That, he was _not_ capable of.”

“You were lovers,” she said softly. “What was it that you needed, that he couldn’t give?”

He paused then, searching for the right words. “Qui-Gon loved all living things. His compassion encompassed everything, everybody. But he was never able to narrow that focus – to devote the totality of his passion to any one person. Master Tahl was probably the one individual with whom he might have achieved it, but even with her, there was something that always came first.”

“That must have been hard for you, to . . .”

“Every man wants someone to burn, just for him. It took me a long time to accept that, with Qui-Gon, it simply wasn’t possible. He loved me, when he was looking at me. When I claimed his focus. In the moment.”

“And that was enough for you?”

He chuckled softly. “Are you kidding? I was a twenty-year-old walking hormone when we became lovers. Of course, it wasn’t enough. But I learned quickly that it would have to be enough. Anything more was just not possible.”

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan,” she said gently, after a pause to digest what he’d said. “Did he say that he . . .”

When he spoke again, his eyes were closed, as if he were reliving an old familiar memory. “He would look down at me, when I was propped up on pillows in his big bed, and trace my face with his fingers. Then he’d take my hand and lay it against his heart, and he’d say, ‘Be with me, Obi-Wan. Be here, in this moment, with me, and know that, in this moment, you are my heart.’ Then I’d feel his mind reach into mine, and feel my heart slow and match the rhythm of his. And then he’d kiss me senseless, until I was nothing more than a writhing, boneless bundle of need, inflamed by the touch of his hands and the feel of his mouth on my body. And then, he’d claim me, and he’d surge inside me, and fill me with his heat and his velvet hardness, and my heart and soul would just . . .explode, like a supernova, until I was only capable of one thought. I could have lived, in _that_ moment, forever.”

“Force,” she whispered, “you were just a baby.”

“Was I?” For a moment, he seemed surprised by her observation. “I’d never thought much about it,” he answered finally, “but, in a way, I suppose you’re right. From my perspective, the Jedi Order has some rather peculiar priorities. By the time I was sixteen, I’d killed at least a dozen beings, fought in countless wars, negotiated truces and settlements and border disputes, been wounded and patched up and wounded again more times than I could count, but when it came to sexual experience, beyond a bit of groping and a few clumsy kisses, I was ridiculously ignorant – as naïve as a child, and easily manipulated, I guess.” 

He fell silent for a moment, as if considering some new revelation. “I think he wanted it that way,” he said with a small smile. “He was Jedi, first and foremost, but he was also human, after all, and maybe – just a little – possessive. While he couldn’t, because of his nature, focus on me, I rather think he liked the idea of _me_ focusing on _him_.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” she demanded, her disbelief obvious in her tone.

He didn’t answer quickly, considering his response. But the response, when it came, was hardly surprising. “I loved him with every breath of my body, and if I had been told that allowing him to make love to me would cost me my life, I still would have gone through with it. Without a second thought.”

Abruptly, she drained the last of her brandy, set her snifter down – a bit harder than necessary – and strode forward to take up a position before the viewscreen, her movements sharp and bursting with restrained energy, appearing slightly disjointed due to a flickering show of light and shadow, created by a pattern of multi-colored strobes in the darkness before her, announcing the arrival of a T’hurgian freighter in the anterior dock. Her body was rigid with suppressed emotion, as she muttered something under her breath.

Obi-Wan watched her, with a small smile. “Anger leads to . . .”

“Oh, shut up,” she snarled.

His face was a delicate relief etching of limned radiance against the darkness “Only if you speak up, and tell me what you said.”

“I said,” she replied impatiently, “that I wish the big bastard was still alive, so I could kill him.”

He looked up at her then, and a sly wisdom, a cunning that was somehow out of place in those luminous eyes, revealed itself in a quick flare of emotion, just before he lowered his lashes. “That’s a strange wish, for a Jedi Master, don’t you think?”

She felt a heavy foreboding, a smothering stillness form around her, as she clinched her eyes tightly, making sure that her face was turned so that he could glimpse neither her features nor their reflection in the glossy sweep of paristeel.

 _He knows_ , she thought, with growing, horror-stricken certainty. _Sweet goddess help us, he knows._

 

************ ****************** ************** 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Prodigal - Chapter 2 of 6

************** **************** ****************

 

Luxuriating in a sense of security and the comfort of somnolent warmth, the kind of comfort that was enjoyed far too rarely by Jedi field operatives, Master Adi Gallia stretched in a decidedly feline manner and registered the whisper of silky bedding as it caressed her skin. She had slept, as always when it was feasible, unencumbered by clothing and roused to wakefulness slowly, noting the downy stroke of synth-silk sheeting against the swell of her breasts, a sensation which led her mind to thoughts of a more prurient nature as she opened her eyes and looked out upon the small, morning-lit garden that served as a private meditation sanctuary for the base commander, along with any high-ranking guests. The lovely little space, artificially constructed but designed to mimic a perfectly natural environment, was accessible only from Commander Kenobi’s private quarters and three other VIP suites which were arranged in a quadrangle around the lushly landscaped courtyard.

A flicker of movement drew her attention, a shift of shadows beyond the semi-sheer draperies that softened the radiance of artificial morning, and she wondered briefly if it was that which had nudged her out of her slumber. The sheet of paristeel that stretched floor to ceiling, across the exterior wall of her bedchamber faced directly across the garden into the quarters of Commander Kenobi, and her eyes moved instinctively to follow the soft flutter of gossamer fabric that emphasized the shift of air currents within the enclosure. Smiling over remembered remarks about the young man in his padawan years – an oft repeated grumble that Obi-Wan would, if possible, avoid even a nodding acquaintance with any hour that preceded mid-morning – she reached for a short wrap-around toga, which she clasped above her bust before venturing out to the small balcony that gave access to the simulated garden. 

The enclosed space, centered around a tiny stone-lined pool, gurgling softly under the fall of a small series of stair-step cascades and generating a droplet-laden mist that dappled the foliage of a colorful variety of low-growing, lacy evergreens, measured only four meters square, encouraging a sense of seclusion. The spectrum of the light which slanted into the courtyard, pouring from invisible lightsources concealed within the transparent framework of the domed ceiling, was a perfect duplication of the natural radiance of the Alderaani homeworld – generally acknowledged as the loveliest in the galaxy, and Adi inhaled deeply in the golden warmth, marveling at the blend of rich fragrances that should not have been possible on an artificial construct floating in the middle of the great void. It was immediately obvious that no expense had been spared in an effort to provide a natural, rustic setting to soothe the mental and physical tensions of a constantly stressed base commander and those who sought him out and with whom he might socialize.

On the opposite side of the great installation, a similar enclosure, under an identical force-field shielded dome, fronted the private quarters of the Station Governor and the upper echelon of his civilian staff, but since all the adjacent apartments were permanently occupied, it was more heavily used and therefore, less pristine, than the one reserved for Commander Kenobi.

Master Gallia suppressed an impulse to dispense with her clothing and revel in the feel of sunlight – no matter how artificially generated – on the fullest barren expanse of her skin, and, instead, allowed herself to acknowledge a swift twinge of arousal as she gazed across into Obi-Wan’s quarters, thoroughly enjoying the vision that tantalized her senses. The base commander had obviously been engaging in a morning workout, as he wore only brief, clinging athletic shorts, sweat-dampened, with a towel draped over one shoulder. He was standing just within the doorway to his quarters, facing away from her, and part of his body was obscured by the texture of semi-sheer draperies that swathed the full-length window framing the entrance, but the part that was visible – one long, well-muscled leg, one tight, trim buttock, one side of the narrow waist flaring up into the broad, sculpted shoulder, and the toned arm that reached up to release the clip that held a tumble of coppery tresses up off his neck, where perspiration dripped down the channel of his spine – was more than enough to spur warm bursts of memory.

 _Still eminently fuckable,_ she thought, indulging in a bit of fantasy, until she noted the quiet, warm rumble of his laughter, as he leaned forward and said something that she couldn’t quite hear to someone she couldn’t quite see, prompting her to sigh with gentle regret. Eminently fuckable indeed, but not, apparently, for her.

She was not comfortable with staring openly into the dim interior of his quarters or with extending tendrils of Force to learn the identity of his guest, but she found that she could barely contain her curiosity when Obi-Wan leaned around the doorframe, almost purring under the caress of a long-fingered, masculine hand that locked itself abruptly into the bright tumult of his hair. Other than vague outlines which seemed to indicate a tall, slender figure – slightly taller than Obi-Wan, but with greater bulk - and a sweep of dark, silky hair, Adi could make out no details of the visitor in the Commander’s quarters, but certain things she did not need to see to perceive.

The kiss between the two was deep and compelling and painfully tender.

This was no one-night stand – no casual affair. This was deeper, surer, more intimate.

The hand flexed in the bright drift of hair and then dropped lower, stroking the muscles of the upper back, tracing the curve of the spine, falling finally to rest on the perfect swell of the hip. It was a touch that would not have been out of place in public, even in the most rigid, hardline conservative society of the Republic; it was also the most sensual gesture Adi had ever seen.

Instinctively, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and tried to regulate her breathing.

Too late, and she allowed herself a rueful smile. She certainly should have known that he would notice.

“Good morning, Adi,” he called, making no effort to disguise his amusement, but still not turning to look at her.

“That it is, Commander,” she replied, “And I could eat a raw bantha. Care to join me for breakfast?”

Another kiss, following by a soft, sardonic murmur, disjointed phrases that included words like “nosy as the troll” and “show her the love bite”.

Obi-Wan laughed, and Adi loved the sound of it. He sounded young and full of life, and she knew he hadn’t sounded that way for a very long time. She had no idea of the identity of his shadowy companion, but she decided, sight unseen, that she approved.

“Ten minutes,” he said, after a significant pause. “I need a shower.”

He stepped into his quarters, closing the door behind him, and two silhouettes became one.

 

****** ********** ********** **********

It was, of course, considerably more than ten minutes, but she found that she didn’t mind. 

After directing the serving droids to arrange breakfast for two on the tiny mosaic-topped table that was incorporated into the retaining wall overlooking the tiny pool in the garden, she exchanged her short cover-up for a more discreet dressing gown – a lovely voluminous sweep of the incredibly delicate luminescent natural silk handspun by the ancient tribal craftsmen of Corellia 5, transformed by nimble fingers into a simply-cut garment that fell away from a stand-up collar that framed her face amid a tracery of pearlescent beads . As she settled into the comfort of a biri-ratan woven chair, the pale luster of the garment reacted with the sun-synth illumination to wrap her in soft scraps of rainbow radiance, trailing gentle fingers of light across her face and serving to set off the rich caramel hue of her skin and the sheer beauty of huge, liquid eyes.

It was the kind of garment one wore for very special occasions: to tempt a new lover, or inspire pangs of regret in an old one.

Adi sipped her perfectly steeped tea as she studied the minutiae of the garden, and allowed herself a very small sigh. She was already sure that the effort – and the gown – would prove to be a total waste of time and effort, and she was more than a bit annoyed with herself. She didn’t often succumb to impulse, and it was surely impulse that had driven her to wrap herself up like a Winter Festival gift, awaiting the touch of eager hands to tear open the package.

She did not, after all, lack for willing companions, but there was – always had been – just something special about Obi-Wan Kenobi.

She leaned back in her chair, and observed a small flight of Ch’handré Fuis butterflies swarming amid the coral and cream blossoms of a dwarf aiemella tree, and smiled when a brightly-colored Garqian finch – a male in all his jade and garnet splendor – alit on a charick branch and launched himself into a bright glissando of mating calls. The female, resting on another branch of the same tree, ignored him, and would continue to do so until the moment of her choosing.

Adi laughed and wondered when she had lost control of this moment.

And also wondered – for just a fraction of a moment – exactly how much it had cost to create this little pocket of paradise.

But that thought she released immediately, remembering the purpose – and the person – for whom it had been created, and realizing that the funds, however staggering the amount, had been well spent. It was not something that was acknowledged among the Jedi; not something that was even discussed in official channels, lest it breed unseemly pride and encourage arrogance and excessive egotism among the subjects, but there _was_ an elite level of Jedi knighthood, no matter how strongly the Council and the hierarchy tried to deny it.

The Best of the Best – that was the term used by the rank and file – and admittance into that exclusive club was granted only to the most extraordinary individuals, by virtue of performance. No other criteria applied.

There were no membership formalities; no rules, no bylaws, no uniforms or badges or secret handshakes; there was only an informal roster of names – spoken by few but known to all – names including legendary Jedi of the past and a small handful of contemporaries, who had earned their inclusion through incredible achievements.

Mace Windu’s name was on the list. As was Plo Koon’s and Eeth Koth’s and Saesee Tinn’s. As was Qui-Gon Jinn’s.

And, at the bottom of the list, as the latest addition, was the name of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

His Master had once predicted that he would become a great Jedi Knight, but no one – not even the mighty Jinn – could have foreseen just what that greatness would entail.

In his own fashion, he had become so valuable to the Order that she could not imagine how the knighthood might function without him, and, despite the warmth of the light that bathed her so lavishly, she could not suppress the shiver that touched her spine.

No one, she thought, could claim to know the extent of what the young knight had suffered; soul bonds – even successful ones – were exceedingly rare, occurring only once or twice in entire generations of Jedi. She, personally, had only known one bonded pair, and they had been very old and nearing the end of their lives when she had been a young apprentice. But she remembered them well, remembered particularly the aura of contentment that had clung to them, and the sense of rightness that had permeated the Force in their presence. She remembered the beauty – the perfect harmony of it – and found that she had to suppress an urge to weep for the young man who had been denied the joy that the Force had sought to grant him.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

She closed her eyes – and remembered.

_She had found it difficult to recover her serenity after the confrontation in the Council Chamber; she didn’t think she would ever forget the look in the young padawan’s lovely eyes – the hurt and the sense of betrayal that he had quickly suppressed, in stepping forward to support what his Master had done. She had wondered then – as she continued to wonder now – if Qui-Gon had understood the depth of his treasonous impulse, or if he had simply assumed, as was his wont, that what he wanted, Obi-Wan would provide, if it were within his power._

_She almost laughed then at her own inanity. The answer, of course, was . . . both._

_She had dined in her quarters, having had little appetite and, in the end, wound up indulging her fondness for Alderaanian meade, which had done nothing to aid her in regaining her equilibrium but had enabled her to relax sufficiently to disperse the tense stiffness which had caused knots of muscle to form in her back and shoulders._

_It was at that point that she had found her quarters too confining, too remote, too barren, and realized that she needed to reconnect to the Living Force. She had come then to the tiny Chaos Garden, the only one among all the various cultivated areas of the Temple that grew with natural, untamed abundance, controlled only by the space allotted for it and the random generation of water and light and climate; it had long been her favorite, though she had never quite figured out why. Adi, with her pre-occupation with the meaning and detection and interpretation of patterns, would have seemed to be the very last person to revel in the eruption of disorder and a total dearth of patterns, but the attraction was undeniable, almost an obsession, and she had long since given up any attempt to analyze it._

_She had settled herself into a foliage-draped bower, breathing deeply of the rich, earthy night fragrance, and tried to release the uneasiness that had lingered within her mind since that moment in the Council Chamber when Qui-Gon had pressed his hands against the shoulders of a small, defiant child with huge, crystalline eyes._

_And she had allowed herself a frown of annoyance as she recognized that she had no idea why she should describe the boy as ‘defiant’. She had reached into his consciousness, as had all the Masters present in the Chamber, and found . . . that was just the problem, she realized. She could not quite identify what she’d found. Traces of anger, of fear, of anxiety and anticipation, a solid sense of self-confidence, but those things were surely only normal under the circumstances. But there had been something else – something vague and shifting, almost primal, something that danced away from mental probing. Something that exulted in its formlessness; something in the process of becoming, but uncertain of what it would become._

_Something that almost laughed at the Masters, and she had been almost certain that the boy, himself, was unaware of the existence of whatever it was._

_Impatient with her own musings, she had finally managed to push them away, having given up on trying to dispel them, and submerged herself within the Force, relishing the feel of it and allowing herself a very small nuance of satisfaction in the realization that her ability to achieve almost total fusion with the power that surrounded her was shared with only a very few of her brethren. So attuned was she – so immersed – that her physical presence within her natural surroundings had become dim and imprecise, and thus, perceptible only to someone who might have known she was there._

_Which was definitely not the case of the slender young man who strode into the garden, his Jedi cloak swinging side-to-side with the strength of his gait, as he moved toward the balustrade which overlooked the vista of the great city. It did not require Jedi senses to conclude that he was annoyed as he deliberately stepped out of his way in order to kick a small, lop-sided child’s ball which, judging by its faded color and distorted shape, had probably lain undisturbed in this quiet bower for many years. It would do so no longer, as it went sailing out into the semi-darkness, and quickly disappeared._

_Adi Gallia watched as Obi-Wan Kenobi reached the broad railing, and she debated making her presence known. He was obviously distraught and . . ._

_When he banged his fist against the plascrete that stood between him and the open air, she readjusted her thinking. Okay – he wasn’t distraught. He was totally and completely pissed off, and maybe she should . . ._

_Then she saw him lay his head down on his hands, and watched as he fought to control the sobs that wrenched at him._

_Maybe she should just remain still and allow him his grief. He was, after all, entitled to it. And it wouldn’t – couldn’t last long. The shuttle which would take him and his Master – and Qui-Gon’s new ward – to the landing platform to rejoin Queen Amidala’s party would be arriving in the docking bay within the hour, and it was certain that, no matter the circumstances, neither rage nor pain, nor injuries sufficient to cause him to bleed out through his eyes would prevent him from following his Master’s orders and being at the right place at the right time. As she had come here for peace and quiet and contemplation, and Obi-Wan, having managed to purge his anger, would probably not intrude on her focus as he seemed to be settling into a meditative posture of his own, she would . . ._

_She managed – barely – to control the urge to exhale sharply in exasperation._

_Obi-Wan had moved into the garden with all the deliberation of a guided missile, looking neither right nor left, and totally fixated on his own thoughts._

_The presence that entered next was not so much guided as prowling, like some great beast scenting the wind._

_Nevertheless, despite the palpable physical power that swept through the garden as he entered, he failed to note the slight distortion in the Force that would have indicated Master Gallia’s presence, had he been looking for it. Instead, he saw only his padawan, slumped against the restraining balustrade, peering down into the darkness, so focused on his thoughts that he remained unaware of the approach of his Master._

_Master Gallia actually opened her mouth to intervene, thinking to protect the boy from the flicker of fury she read in the depths of Qui-Gon’s sapphire eyes, but she paused when she saw the Master falter and hesitate, apparently stricken by the despair that was carved in every line of the young man’s body._

_It was immediately obvious that an emotional tug-of-war was being played out in Qui-Gon’s mind, and Adi held her breath, hoping against hope._

_The struggle was brief._

_“Your thoughts betray you, Obi-Wan. Jealousy does not become you.”_

_Obi-Wan stiffened, and hastily drew his hand across his eyes, before rising, but he did not turn to face the man who had been his mentor, his most trusted companion, for so long._

_“Yes, Master.”_

_“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”_

_Adi closed her eyes and suppressed the shiver generated by the ice in his voice._

_“What more should I say, Master?” The boy’s voice was dead-calm, lifeless. “What would you have me say?”_

_Qui-Gon reached out, totally lacking in his customary gentle grace, and jerked at his padawan’s shoulder, forcing the boy to turn and face him. “You might start with an apology,” he snarled, “for your appalling behavior.”_

_Obi-Wan just looked at him for a moment, and Adi wondered how the Master who had raised this young man from childhood could stand to read the hurt in those eyes and not react, not reach out to soothe the pain. But there was nothing in Qui-Gon’s face beyond impatience and . . . something more. Something sinister._

_Finally, Obi-Wan looked down, as he took a deep breath. “Of course, Master. I apologize for disappointing you. It isn’t as if . . .”_

_He stopped then, apparently stricken with the realization that he had almost said too much._

_“Isn’t as if . . . what?” The frigid quality of the Master’s voice had not abated. If anything, it had intensified._

_Obi-Wan reached up, and Adi thought it must be a completely unconscious gesture, and grasped his padawan braid as he searched for the right words. “Isn’t as if I didn’t know it was coming,” he said finally. “It’s sooner than I expected, but I should have been better prepared. I mean no harm to Anakin, Master, though I can’t deny that I sense terrible risk in . . .”_

_“Stop!” The Master barked. “I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. Anakin is not your concern. But I want to know what you meant, what, exactly, did you know ‘was coming’?”_

_The padawan moved then, as if to turn away, but Qui-Gon was having none of that. His hands closed on the young man’s biceps, and Adi winced, knowing there would be bruises there later and knowing that the Master would probably not be in the mood to heal them, or to allow them to be healed by another._

_“What was coming, Obi-Wan?” Hard, demanding, almost sneering._

_The padawan sighed before beginning to speak. “The day when you would leave me, Master. The day when my life, without you, would begin. The day when . . . you would no longer see me, when you would focus on another. Today, it seems, is that day.”_

_The Master was silent for a time, his face unreadable as he loosened his grip finally, and allowed his apprentice to turn away, to gaze out into the thick tapestry of night._

_“It would seem,” he said finally, calmly, coldly, “that I was mistaken. I have not raised a capable padawan who is ready to face his trials. Instead, I have raised a weakling, a pouting child who thinks only of himself. Who weeps because he is losing his place at my side.”_

_Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and ignored the tears that trailed down his cheeks. “Yes, Master. Shall I . . . do you wish for me to remain here while you escort the Queen back to Naboo? If so, I will, of course, remove my belongings from your quarters and make arrangements to relocate elsewhere. If . . .”_

_Adi Gallia was never certain thereafter who was more startled by what happened next – herself, the boy – or Qui-Gon himself. The towering Jedi Master, still obviously in the grip of rage, grabbed his apprentice and threw him against the stone façade that abutted the balustrade, and held him pinned beneath the mass and weight of his own body._

_“I should let you go,” he snarled, using tendrils of Force to immobilize the young man, as he wrapped the padawan braid around his fist, and Master Gallia was stunned by the degree of desperation in his voice. It was almost beyond comprehension that the mighty Qui-Gon Jinn could be reduced to such blatant raw need. “I should let the Force take you, send you away from me . . . but I can’t. You_ will _learn to bend to my will, Padawan, to do what you’re told, to accept what I tell you. But there is one thing that must be made clear between us – one thing that you have failed to understood. No matter what happens, no matter whether you are knight, or padawan, or expelled from the Jedi. You are_ mine _! And you will always be mine. You can agree, or you can fight me, but the result will be the same. By the gods, that any creature should be so beautiful and so enmeshed in my soul that I can’t be free of you! Do you know how long I wanted you, how long I denied myself? Since you were seventeen years old – that’s how long. I used to go into your room at night, just to watch you sleep. Just to listen to you breathe and watch the rise and fall of your chest. I’ve wanted you – it seems like forever. So listen to what I say to you; the boy must be trained – will be trained, and I must be the one to do it, but you . . . you’re a fever in my blood. A torment that drives me, that leaves me eternally hungry, eternally thirsting for the taste of you. Whether you stay with me as my student, my knight, my servant – doesn’t matter. There will be no living without me. Do – you – understand?”_

_Master Adi saw the panic rise in the young man’s eyes, saw him open his mouth to resist._

_But Qui-Gon was too quick and too clever, and silenced the voice of protest with his mouth._

_Still, the padawan tried to fight him off, tried to squirm free of the heavy body that restrained him, but the struggle was short-lived. Adi saw and recognized the moment when Obi-Wan was overwhelmed, betrayed by his own body, his own need, his own passion. When he reached up and wrapped his arms around Qui-Gon’s neck, and opened his mouth to the invading tongue that had been demanding entrance, the battle was done._

_It was at that point that Adi really wished she had made her presence known earlier, or that she was confident enough in her abilities to be sure that she could make good her escape undetected._

_Remaining undetected; that would be the problem, she realized quickly._

_The light in the garden was soft and shadowed, but not shadowed enough._

_When Qui-Gon, never releasing the kiss that devoured Obi-Wan’s mouth, tore off the young man’s clothing, dropping it at his feet, soft bars of ambient light caressed pale gold skin, and painted the perfect body with bands of violet shadow. The Master finally moved away from lips now swollen and red with passion, huge hands sliding down to cup the sweet swell of buttocks, and lifting the padawan, who had gone almost boneless in his grasp, so that he could nuzzle against perfect, fat, rose brown nipples._

_“Tell me,” the Master said harshly, moving to the other nipple and biting down sharply, “what you want.”_

_And even then, even almost seduced into submission, there was a stirring of rebellion, a small, fleeting show of will, and Adi Gallia, now hardly daring to breathe, wondered if Lunkhead Jinn had ever had a clue about the magnificent strength and power of his padawan._

_But the Master’s hands were as busy as his mouth, and one long, thick finger found the entrance to the young man’s body just as the padawan would have found the will and strength to speak with his own voice, and he was lost._

_“Tell me,” Qui-Gon repeated, twisting his finger to find that sweet, magic spot that was always guaranteed to short out his padawan’s mental processes._

_“You,” sobbed the apprentice, finally, electrified by the bolts of pure, heart-stopping pleasure generated by that relentless, probing finger. “You, always.”_

_“And how do you want me, Padawan mine?” The ice in the voice had given way to raging heat._

_“Inside me, Master. As you will.”_

_Abruptly, Qui-Gon paused and shifted the young body in his arms so that they could look directly into each other’s eyes. “Yes, my Little Love. As I will. That’s what you must never forget. As I will, and if I decide that I wish to take you, rough and raw and bleeding?”_

_The young man managed to suppress the tremor and the stab of fear that rose within him. “As you will, Master.”_

_Qui-Gon smiled, and inhaled deeply, enchanted with the fragrance that was so uniquely Obi-Wan._

_“Have no fear, Little Love. I won’t hurt you. I’ll never hurt you again... But you will be forever mine.”_

_Without a single wasted motion, he discarded his own clothing then, arranging it into a nest on which they lay down together and prepared his young lover with aching gentleness, before lifting Obi-Wan’s legs and draping them over his shoulders and plunging into that lush, perfect body, insisting that they remain face to face, as he established a hard, driving rhythm, pounding into the sweet, tight heat that was unlike any other, matching their heartbeats, watching the beautiful features for the bloom of incipient orgasm – and pausing at exactly the right moment._

_“Say it,” he growled, barely able to control his own need to strive for completion. “Say it now.”_

_“Yours, Master,” groaned the young man, and neither of them chose to acknowledge the tears that continued to well in his eyes. “Forever yours.”_

_With that admission, Qui-Gon re-established the rhythm of their lovemaking, and drove himself with even greater force into the lithe, willing body of his padawan, reaching between them to grasp Obi-Wan’s throbbing shaft and work it in time with their frenzied thrusting, timing their mutual annihilation so that they tumbled into oblivion together._

_“Mine forever,” murmured the Master, and only Master Gallia, in her role as reluctant voyeur, was there to notice that Obi-Wan continued to shed silent tears, and that his eyes were dark and shadowed with regret as he recognized the true meaning of the words Qui-Gon had spoken so intensely, and the glaring omission of the ones he had never spoken at all._

_She would come to know, sooner than anybody could have predicted, just what ‘forever’ meant to the Jedi Master._

She had never told anyone what she had witnessed that night, and she still didn’t know why, even after all these years; she had found Obi-Wan’s admission about his Master’s possessiveness curiously endearing, as it had served to demonstrate that even Jedi were capable of a ‘creative interpretation’ of events, and it had somehow reinforced her determination to maintain her silence. In one sense, she had believed that Qui-Gon’s actions in that tiny garden – actions that verged on violence, on coercion - were a violation of the regulations that governed the relationship between Masters and Padawans. But in another sense, she understood that the feeling that had existed between the two of them – even though it had not been the perfect, fairy-tale, happily-ever-after romance that the younger Jedi had wanted, in that it had consisted as much of lust as affection – had been a form of love, and thus remained sacrosanct within the confines of Obi-Wan’s memories.

And, of course, within a matter of days, the entire subject had become moot anyway. Naboo had happened. The Sith had happened, and Fate . . .

She decided that there were yet some paths she would continue to choose not to explore. 

Qui-Gon had _not_ loved his padawan with his whole heart, or over and above all things. But he had loved him in his own fashion, and Obi-Wan, over the years, seemed to have made his peace with that. She saw no sense in dredging up old wounds, unless . . .

But no. It was best to leave sleeping gundarks undisturbed, but it was also wise to be prepared, in case they wakened on their own.

She sipped her tea and dozed lightly, wrapped in the sweet, warm ambiance of Obi-Wan’s garden.

 

* * * * * * * *

“That’s supposed to be a symptom of old age,” said the young Jedi, as he dropped into the chair across the table, tossing his uniform jacket toward a convenient shrub. 

She opened one eye, electing to ignore his smart-ass comment, and observed, with a small measure of disgust, that sunlight loved Obi-Wan Kenobi, almost as much as moonlight, or starlight, or firelight, or . . . whatever, and she wondered idly if there was any color that wouldn’t become him, as the creamy silk of his uniform shirt was a perfect foil for pale gold skin and the long braid glinting with sparks of flame.

She sat up, reaching for the teapot, taking a moment to appreciate the fact that someone had gone to the trouble of digging up a genuine porcelain tea service, probably older than dirt, for her personal use, undoubtedly knowing of her dislike for the plastique abominations used almost everywhere else. “Careful, Whelp. Them’s fightin’ words, you know, and I can still kick your scrawny little ass, twice a day, every day. You smell freshly . . . scrubbed,” she said with a grin.

He poured himself a cup of jaffa, dark and fragrant and steaming, and returned her grin. “As it happens, I am freshly . . . scrubbed.”

Impulsively, she reached out and cupped his chin with a fleeting caress. “You do know, don’t you,” she said very softly, “that I would like, very much, to see you happy? It’s incredible that the years – and everything else – haven’t really touched you at all. You’re still so beautiful, it almost hurts to look at you.”

His smile was gentle, before turning just slightly lascivious. “Is that why you’re wearing that gown?”

“This old thing?” she drawled. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

He chuckled softly. “Who’d you have to kill to pay for it?”

She smiled. “Nothing like that. I just promised them your firstborn, chameleon eyes and cleft chin guaranteed.”

“Ahh,” he replied, reaching for a slab of thick, toasted prouschnut-bread, dripping with butter, “my fame precedes me, no doubt.”

She gazed at him for a moment, her eyes shadowed and soft. “Yes.”

He looked up at her then, and, once more, she saw something in his face that defied definition, something that looked like a pensive regret.

“Planning to stay a while?” he asked finally, spearing a wedge of hersk-melon from a colorful fruit platter.

“No,” she answered, pouring more tea. “My task here is done. Isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “If you came all the way out here to slap me down, mission accomplished.”

She reached out and took his hand, and seemed to use it to focus her thoughts, noting idly the way the sunlight (articifial source notwithstanding) sparked copper highlights in the fine hairs that lay soft against skin lightly tanned from exposure to the suns of a dozen different worlds. “Tell me what’s bothering you, Obi-Wan. And please don’t insult me by telling me that there’s nothing. We’ve been friends for too long, and I deserve better.”

“Have we?” he replied softly. “Have we really?”

“You doubt me?” She found herself barely able to give breath to the question.

He refused to meet her gaze, peering instead into the depths of his jaffa mug. “Of late,” he answered, “I find myself doubting almost everything.” He paused for a moment, and appeared to consider his next words carefully. “There is a great disturbance, not just in the Force, but in the galaxy. I won’t insult you by assuming you hadn’t noticed, although I am slightly puzzled by the Order’s continued silence. Something looms over us. Do we . . . do _you_ know what it is?”

“You’ve seen all the data, Obi-Wan. Just as I have. What do you think?”

“Lately, I’ve seen things I never expected to see. Things that seem . . . improbable. Even impossible, but my sources are impeccable. So perhaps I must rethink my old assumptions. What do you think?”

“You’re being very cryptic,” she retorted, determined to suppress any nuance of uncertainty. “Perhaps if you told me . . .”

“Garen was here last month,” he said quickly, apropos of nothing, as far as she could understand.

“Was he? That must have been a treat for you. He’s been working on the other side of the galaxy, for years. Why would he . . .”

“He had some information for me. For my eyes only, you might say. From a rather unusual source. Are you familiar with a woman named Aurra Sing?”

She set her teacup down abruptly, so abruptly that it tipped and splashed deep auburn liquid across the bodice of her gown. She barely noticed, as she was preoccupied with trying to keep her voice steady. “Bounty hunter, based on Tatooine, I think. Rumor has it that she made the mistake of double-crossing one of the more powerful Hutt overlords and wound up in a shallow grave out in the desert.”

He smiled. “Rumor, as usual, was wrong. Garen had been undercover for several months, working on busting a gun-running operation on the Rimma Trade Route.”

“The Rimma Route?” she echoed faintly.

He nodded. “In the vicinity of Dagobah, the galactic hospitality suite of swampy charm, you know. He ran into Mdm. Sing on Sluis Van, actually caught her red-handed, in possession of extremely illegal contraband. In return for her release, she gave him some intriguing information.”

She suddenly realized that she was still holding his hand, and released it abruptly. “What is it that you think you know?” she asked. “Obviously, something has upset you, so . . .”

He shook his head. “Everything is unconfirmed. Just speculation, so far. But it’s all interconnected, I think. All symptomatic. The galaxy, my dear Adi, is teetering on the brink of disaster, and the Jedi . . . the Jedi seem always to be looking in the wrong direction. Everything has become a game of misdirection, of smoke and mirrors.”

Up to this point, Adi’s primary concern had been for the welfare of an old friend, and, beyond that, for the preservation of the brotherhood of the Jedi, but she realized immediately that Obi-Wan was talking about something much more dire, more elemental than any internal turmoil, which might rock the Order to its foundations, but could not, ultimately, destroy it. But this – what he was talking about – was ruin, total, complete annihilation.

“Tell me what you’ve seen,” she demanded.

“Whatever I’ve seen,” he answered, “has been ephemeral. Just fragments of dark dreams. When - and if - I have more, I’ll tell you. In the meantime, the intelligence data we’ve gathered over the last few months should be enough to ruin your sleep for the next year or two. The Separatists gain power every day, and someone manipulates the media so that the Jedi are made to seem negligent and ineffectual, at best. Lately, my dear Adi, we look more like bumbling fools than skilled warriors and diplomats. And we do ourselves no favors by remaining aloof and silent, locked away in our pristine towers.”

“What are you saying, Obi-Wan?” she demanded. “We can’t walk away from the traditions that have guided us for millennia. If we allow ourselves to get involved in the day-to-day lives of those we serve, we lose our objectivity, our ability to be impartial. You know that.”

He poured another cup of jaffa. “Do I? I know it’s what we’ve always been taught, that we must serve humbly and hold ourselves apart. But when, I wonder, does a determination to preserve solitude become a tendency to set one’s self above those one serves? When does compassion become contempt?”

Her tone was suddenly thick with irony. “Philosophically speaking, you inherited more from your Master than any of us ever expected. But you and I are not going to resolve these fundamental questions, no matter how much we debate it. There are more practical issues at hand.”

He smiled. “I’m not so sure, old flame o’mine. I think it may all come back to haunt us, in the end. But, concerning practical issues, there are growing indications that the Hutts and the Trade Federation are working together to create a network of unaligned planets, to provide available ports for Separatists’ shipping, and possibly more.”

“More?” The word was sharp.

“If they’re preparing for war, they’ll need a full complement of military bases.”

“And you think this network . . .”

“I think it’s possible, but we need more evidence before we can make an informed judgment. I _had_ planned to take a team to Sernpidal next month, to test the waters, so to speak. There’ve been rumors about a new syndicate operating there, very well financed and very interested in developing alliances with the older, more established organizations. For opening up ‘new territories’. That’s the official word.”

She rose then, and moved to stand directly behind him, laying her hands on his shoulders and refusing to be distracted by how well his silk shirt molded itself against his torso or the lines of the long muscles of his thighs, encased in exquisitely tailored trousers, or the fiery red blotch of a passion mark just visible on the side of his throat. “You are going nowhere,” she said firmly. “You said Garen was here. I’ll initiate the paperwork to have him transferred to your command, so you can send him . . .”

“He’s already out on assignment,” he replied. “On a rather delicate matter, from the Jedi perspective. But I’ll find someone. As you’ve been so quick to point out, operatives like me are as common as slugs on Nal Hutta.”

She smiled gently, once more bracing his face with her hands. “Operatives like you are irreplaceable, as I think you know very well. Which is why you will confine your charming little behind to this base.”

He grimaced. “Damn! Can’t I even come to Coruscant?”

She was startled into a bright outburst of laughter. “You haven’t been to Coruscant in nine years. Why would you want to come now? It’s the same overcrowded, noisy, smelly hive of scum and villainy it always was.”

“Still, I might drop in sometime soon. Just to renew old acquaintances.”

Adi turned to stare up into the foliage above them, noting that the swarm of azure and amethyst butterflies were fanning out beneath the leafy canopy, seeking a more restful sanctuary after being disturbed by the Garqian finches. She refused to allow herself to be alarmed by the faint note of irony she had detected in his voice.

Time for more tea, or for anything that would break the strange tension that permeated the moment and wrapped so firmly around her heart.

“What’s happened to you, Obi-Wan?” she asked after resuming her seat. “There’s a remoteness around you, that I’ve never sensed before.”

“Time,” he said quickly, changeable eyes gone storm gray and heavy with foreboding. “Just . . . time. It catches up to all of us, sooner or later.”

She regarded him in silence for a while, and smiled finally when he withstood her scrutiny without a single indication of discomfort, as he reached for another piece of melon. “Mira and I had quite a long discussion about you,” she said softly, suddenly fascinated by the flash of white teeth biting into the melon’s bright coral flesh, and how the juice burst from the wedge and trailed down across his chin. He laughed gently, and she was forced to suppress a viciously intense urge to lean forward and remove the trace of nectar – and explore that adorable cleft - with her tongue.

A small portion of her brain – the portion dedicated to handling irrelevancies and inescapable observations – noted that he would probably still be _eminently fuckable_ when he was geriatric, bald, palsied, and senile.

“Surely the two of you have better things to do than talk about me,” he responded, dabbing at his face with a white linen napkin.

 _And who in the galaxy_ , she spared a moment to wonder, _still uses real linen napkins?_

She sipped her tea thoughtfully. “Actually, we don’t. Surely, even you realize that your situation is unique, to say the least.”

His sigh contained small nuances of impatience. “Unusual,” he agreed, “but hardly unique. Others have survived the disruption of a soul bond.”

Her tone became desert dry. “That rather depends on your definition of the word, ‘survived’, doesn’t it?” 

“You’ve been reading too many tabloids,” he replied. 

“Mira said the two of you came up with a couple of theories, about how you survived. But when I asked her to explain, she said I should ask you. That it was your story to tell. Or not – as you chose.”

He looked up then, and turned the full power of his gaze on her, while lifting one faintly sardonic eyebrow. “You _could_ make it official,” he observed. “As my superior in Intelligence, you certainly have the right. And as a member of the Council . . .”

“If I make it official,” she replied, “then I’m compelled to report it, officially. I don’t think I want to do that, though I can’t promise that I won’t change my mind, someday. If it ever came to affect your ability to function or the integrity of a mission, I might have no choice. But, for now, I’m simply asking, as a very old friend, who happens to love you a lot, you insufferable little pest.”

He smiled then, and she saw an aching tenderness swell in eyes that had somehow grown old before their time. “You have to understand that it’s all just conjecture. There’s no way to quantify it, or measure it.”

“I know. I gathered, from what she said, that the two of you disagreed in your conclusions.”

He chuckled. “So what else is new?”

She smiled. “The ways of love are strange indeed.”

That brought him up short for a moment, before he nodded slightly. “Mira believes that the bond was too new, too tentative, to survive the trauma of Qui-Gon’s death, that the connection, while complete, was still vulnerable – kind of like new skin growing over a wound. And while it was firmly attached within me, because I’m the one that generated it, in my attempt to save his life, it only touched him enough to hold him for a short while. It never grew strong enough to pull him back completely. She believes that, if it had, there would have been only two possible outcomes. Either he’d have survived within the bond, or I’d have died with him. Also within the bond. The fact that the connection was never firm left me reeling away from it, when it broke completely, rather than being pulled into the Force with him.”

She was quiet for a while, thinking about what he’d said. “Logical,” she said finally, raising her eyes to meet his gaze, “but you think otherwise.”

He was suddenly focused on the dregs within his jaffa mug. “I think my Master made a choice.”

“A choice?” she echoed. “What kind of choice?”

His voice had grown very soft, barely audible. “I think that he stood on the brink of death and considered his options. He could choose to live, locked into a bond he didn’t want but could never hope to escape, or he could go into the Force, free and unfettered. Unbonded. I think he chose his freedom. I think that anyone who knew him would have known what he would do. And, since he never accepted the bond, a bond which could not form without his consent, it was never really torn loose, so much as it was just released.”

“But it did keep him alive,” she argued. “For a while.”

He shrugged. “Think of it as a water hose. If I’m the source of the healing energy, and I pour everything I can into the mouth of the hose, it isn’t necessary for the other end of the hose to actually be attached to a receptacle in order to transfer that energy. The end can just be pointed in the right direction, to fill as many buckets as necessary, before it’s just discarded. The energy worked on him, for a while, but the connection never happened.”

For a time, Adi could only stare at him, as she felt the cold grip of his old, silent pain close around her heart. “You think he rejected the bond, because . . .”

He looked up then to meet her eyes, and she was forced to struggle to refrain from wincing away from the depth of raw aching need that she read in his face. “I should have been the one to die on Naboo, Adi. I always knew it, I think, though I’ve become more convinced over the years. I should have died, so he could live.”

“Don’t!” she snapped, holding up her hands, palm out, to reinforce the strength of her command. “You will not . . .”

“Adi,” he said softly, leaning forward and wrapping his fingers around her wrists, “I know what I know. Qui-Gon died, because I made a mistake. A stupid, bonehead mistake that a second-year padawan could have avoided. I let myself get ejected from the battle, and I wasn’t fast enough to get back in time to save him. He died, because of my error. And I spent the next four years trying to make it right. Trying to give back to the Force what my failure took away. All with the consent of the Council, by the way.”

“What do you mean?” If he noted the tremor in her voice, he was kind enough to ignore it.

“In the four years following his death, I was assigned fifty-nine missions,” he replied, settling back into his chair, and steepling his fingers before his face. “Of the fifty-nine, forty-six were pentrical class. Forty-six, Adi, rated highest risk, with a less than twenty percent possibility of successful resolution. Of the remainder, only three were classified as low-to-moderate risk, and all three were the result of specific requests for my services by someone I’d worked with before. Namely Bail Organa. The other ten were quadrical-class.”

She was careful not to meet his eyes. “You were a new knight, Obi-Wan, and a damned good one. It’s normal for . . .”

“It’s not normal, Adi,” he interrupted, showing just a tiny vein of annoyance. “I checked. Such missions are ordinarily shared among the more experienced field operatives, with younger, greener knights assigned to assist, to allow them a chance to flex their muscles and learn to function outside the Master/padawan relationship.”

“If you believed that, why did you . . .”

“I accepted the missions,” he said sharply, “because they allowed me a means to do what I wanted to do. It was only later, when I had time to put everything together, that I realized that the Council – and maybe the Force – wanted the same thing.”

“And what was it that you wanted to do?”

He closed his eyes. “I wanted it to be over, Adi. I wanted to not wake up every morning and look in a mirror and see the face of the man who failed his Master. I wanted to die.”

She forced herself to pause, to draw a deep breath and consider her words carefully.

“Look at me, Obi-Wan,” she said finally, and waited until he turned his head to comply.

“Do you really think that I would be a part of such a thing? Do you really think I would allow anyone to . . .”

“I think, my darling Adi,” he said firmly, reaching out once more to take her hand, “that you do care about me. That you always have. But, above everything else, you are Jedi, and if you could be convinced that my death was necessary for the good of the Order, then yes. I do believe that you would do whatever you felt you must, though I don’t necessarily believe that you played an active role in this, but someone did. Someone knew and approved.”

She paused again, deciding on taking a different tack. “All right, then. Let’s look at this from a different perspective. A pragmatic perspective, if you will. Forty-six pentrical missions. I’m sure you must know that I, of all people, would know how many such missions you undertook. But I know something else, Sweetness. I know that forty-one of those missions were completed successfully. And three others were adjudged marginal successes. Only two were ultimately given up as failures, and since the parties involved in those two situations had been at war for almost two centuries in one case, and had engaged in repeated, ritual genocide in the other, I think we can safely say they were hopeless from the beginning. Of the quadricals, only one escalated to pentrical status, and that was when the hierarchy of the royal family absconded with the entire planetary treasury and covered their escape by contaminating the capitol’s water supply. And that one, if I recall correctly, you eventually resolved by tracking down and returning most of the money.”

He shook his head. “I don’t see how that changes anything. I was lucky.”

“No. You were good. You were better than good. By all the little gods, Obi-Wan, can’t you see the truth? You have become a great Jedi knight, as good as anyone in the Order.”

She paused, and drew a deep breath before adding one more comment. “As good as Qui-Gon Jinn.” 

For a moment, she thought she had gone too far, that he might actually give free rein to the rage that flared in his eyes.

But he didn’t. He held on, but she knew it wasn’t easy.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered. “Don’t ever say that.”

“I saw the tapes,” she retorted, allowing a bit of her own anger to bleed into her tone. “Of the fight with the Sith. I saw what happened.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure everyone has seen them by now. They’re undoubtedly part of the Temple training course: How Not to Protect Your Master.”

“You think?” she said sharply. “How about a different perspective? How about: How to Run Ahead and Leave Your Padawan Behind, like a big, arrogant jerk. Or wait; I know. How about: How to Cover Your Master’s Behind, after he’s gotten himself turned into shish-kebob.”

The young knight had gone bone white, and Adi could see the tremor in his body as he rose to his feet. “Stop, Adi. Please, just . . .”

But this was no timid maiden, no initiate to be intimidated by the Force that bled into his voice. “You will listen to me,” she said firmly. “If you’ve ever believed a single word I’ve said to you. If you’ve ever trusted me, you will believe this. It was not your fault, Obi-Wan. You did not get him killed.”

For a moment, she was uncertain of whether or not she had reached him, had managed to stem the tide of outrage that rose within him and demanded an outlet. For a moment, it was problematic.

Then there was the barest flicker of realization, a flicker that might even have been a trace of laughter.

“An interesting turn of phrase, Adi,” he said softly, after a while.

“Obi-Wan, _please_!" She implored. “I do love you, and I want to help you.”

“I know,” he said at last, reaching for his uniform jacket. “I know that you’ve only done what you were compelled to do. I wish . . .”

“What? What do you wish?”

He donned his jacket, and adjusted the lightsaber hanging at his waist before stepping forward and pulling her up into his arms. “I wish I could go back, and make everything right. I wish I could _unlearn_ the things I’ve learned. I wish I didn’t know the things I know.”

She wrapped her arms around his torso and basked for a moment in the warmth of his embrace. “What is it,” she asked, barely breathing, “that you think you know?”

But he offered no answer. He simply pulled back and looked at her, before turning to walk away, to immerse himself in the duties of the day.

As he moved toward the exit, a stray beam of light struck sparks of fire from the braid that curled over one shoulder, and sculpted shadows beneath symmetrical cheekbones and jawlines, and she remembered the word that Luminaria Unduli had always used to describe Obi-Wan’s face: luminous.

Adi felt tears well in her eyes as she watched the brilliance play against his profile. He would be forever beautiful, but the light, which had always dwelt within him and wrapped itself around him, was now only a pallid shadow, a shapeless drift of mist. Where it had once filled him, ignited him, propelled him, now there was only emptiness. He was luminous no more.

“Wait!” she called impulsively. Wanting to know, and not wanting to know at the same time. “Mira said she might have found a way to release you from the bond, but you refused. Why would you do that?"

She didn't have to see his face to recognize the sardonic quality in his voice. "Aside from the fact that she couldn't be sure it wouldn't turn me into a mental vegetable?"

"Yes, aside from that."

He paused, and she suddenly did not _want_ to see his face, as he responded with a whisper. "Because it's all I have left of him."

She let him go then, understanding that, at certain moments, the only suitable reply was silence.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_“Darkness waits. All things come to the dark.”_

_\--- The Narrows_ \--- Michael Connelly

*** ***** *****

 

It was early evening in the Jedi Temple, and the corridors were quiet and shadowed, which was perfectly appropriate to the mood of the slender figure who moved through them with fluid grace. Master Gallia had been careful to pull up her hood before exiting the dock area to signal her desire for privacy, but she sensed now, as she waited for the lift that would take her to the Council chamber level, that her precautions had probably been unnecessary. The few individuals she had encountered during her journey had barely glanced at her, seeming preoccupied with thoughts of their own, and those who were accompanied by friends or associates were engaged in animated conversations, though all were careful to speak in whispers. A faint unease stirred within her consciousness; even with heavy shielding and full cloak engaged, she was not accustomed to being overlooked to the degree that no one spared her a second glance.

With a tiny sigh, she deliberately thinned her mental barriers, just enough to sample the ambiance of the Temple population; only a moment was required to confirm her suspicions.

Something was most definitely up, she realized immediately. Something strange, unprecedented. Uplifting, but also alarming; something that would challenge established interpretations of the Jedi Code and demand a new way of looking at concepts like loyalty and honor.

For the first time in many, many years, apprehension stalked the corridors of the Jedi Temple, and many were at a loss to know how to handle it.

As the lift doors opened, she reset her shielding, suppressing another sigh. She would need to check to be sure, of course, but she was almost certain she knew the cause of the unrest. 

She found that, for just a heartbeat, she wanted to be wrong, but she didn’t think so.

The return of the prodigal.

She should, she supposed, feel some nuance of joy, of satisfaction in the achievement of a goal once deemed almost impossible.

Instead, she could only remember the bleak shadows obscuring eyes once radiant with hope and devotion, and she suddenly understand something that she wished desperately she had understood earlier. Early enough to find some way to stop it, to refuse to allow the sacrifice of innocence in the pursuit of expediency.

The doors dilated before her, and she paused for a moment, staring into the vestibule of the great Council Chamber as she reached up and pushed back the hood of her robe, revealing the still lovely sculpture of her face, creased now with lines of worry and reluctant acknowledgement. For the truth, no matter how uncomfortable, could not be avoided forever. She sighed, and accepted. In the final analysis, she _had_ known; she had simply not wanted to see it, so she had allowed the Council to do what she had sub-consciously willed it to do, to redirect the focus of the decision they had reached all those years ago. To see only the need – the potential gain – and think nothing of the cost. It had, after all, not been her cost; nor that of any other member of the Council.

One knight – newly made – young and strong and willing to be sacrificed.

Not such a huge price to pay, was it?

She felt wetness rise in her eyes and wiped them impatiently with the back of her hand.

Not such a huge price, unless you were the one required to pay it.

With grim resolve, she moved into the shadows of the vestibule and threw open the doors to the chamber. In accordance with the request she had transmitted from her courier ship, there were only three individuals awaiting her arrival – all members of the executive council. She had much to tell them, much that she had only just learned, and much more that she had known for some time, but elected to keep to herself.

She still didn’t know if that decision had been right or wrong, but it was far too late to debate the question. Instead, it was time to deal with the consequences.

 

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

The four of them gathered around the freeform conference table in the small alcove off the Council chamber, and settled themselves comfortably, each taking a moment to purge their minds of distractions. All of them had endured an eventful day.

Master Yoda, as had become more and more common of late, appeared cloaked in a heavy weariness, his ears drooping sharply and his skin touched by a waxy pallor. On his left, Mace Windu, wrapped in his customary dignity, seemed to focus on the growing darkness beyond the leaded, octagonal window that looked down on the eastern tower that housed the physical training facilities. Eeth Koth, the Zabrakian member of the Council, sat with his fingers interlaced before his face, the small shadows cast by vestigial horns that formed a crown around his head giving him a vaguely saturnine appearance.

Master Gallia glanced down at the encrypted notes on her datapad before looking up to examine each of the faces turned toward her.

She preceded her opening remark with a soft, regretful exhalation. “He knows,” she said. “He’s figured it out.”

Both Mace Windu and Eeth Koth stirred uneasily, exchanging glances, but Yoda merely nodded. “Expected this, we should have. Gifted in the Unifying Force, he always was.”

Adi smiled. “Agreed, but I think he had a little bit of help. Our field operatives have been very busy of late; the amount of information they’ve amassed is incredible, and, ordinarily, it would take weeks for our data banks to correlate and interpret the data. But . . .”

“But?” prompted Mace Windu.

“But,” she replied, “Obi-Wan has developed an uncanny ability to find patterns in the chaos, to sift out what matters from what doesn’t, and I think he got a little inside information from an old acquaintance. Do you recall the incident with the _Coluth’s Pride_ that occurred off the shoals of Streyssa Mael about a year ago?”

“The passenger liner that collided with a stray meteor,” answered Eeth Koth, with complete certainty. 

“Right,” agreed Adi, “and the ship that was first on the scene, after the disaster. In all the confusion following the accident, the identity of the members of the rescue team almost went unnoticed. Almost.”

“But not entirely,” said Mace Windu, obviously having leaped to the proper conclusion.

She nodded. “Unfortunately, there was someone aboard the liner who had made it a point, earlier in her life, to familiarize herself with most of the ranking members of the Jedi Order. Her name was Aurra Singh.”

“The bounty hunter,” said Koth, grimacing as if he detested the taste of the term.

“The one and only.”

“But what was the connection?” asked Master Windu. “There’s an entire galaxy between Streyssa and . . .”

“Knight Garen Muln,” she interrupted. “Apparently, Madame Singh got herself involved with the weapons trade, and wound up caught in one of his raids.”

“And traded insider information for her freedom,” said Master Koth coldly. “Knight Muln exceeded his authority.”

Adi barely avoided a smile. “I doubt he’d agree. He and Obi-Wan . . . well, let’s just say that they go back all the way to the crèche, together.” The smile was suddenly no more than a memory. “And he undoubtedly believed that he had stumbled on a terrible, dastardly plot, that victimized his best friend.”

For the first time, Master Yoda raised his eyes and met her gaze. “And?”

“And,” she replied, refusing to flinch away from the look in his eyes, “I’m not sure he wasn’t right.”

“Been through this before, we have,” said the eldest of all the Jedi. “Disagreed with our decision, you did, from the beginning. But accepted it you did, when made to see there was no choice.”

“True,” she admitted. “But I’m ashamed to say now, that there’s more here than we knew at the time. At least, I hope there is. I hope none of us knew the full extent of what we did to that young man.”

Mace Windu sat forward abruptly, and Adi had to steel herself to keep from recoiling from the flare of anger she read in his face. “Explain yourself, Master Gallia. While I admit that what we were compelled to do, at the time, was not pretty, it was not . . .”

“He saved his Master,” she interrupted, speaking very softly, “by forming a soul bond, in order to provide the energy to hold on, to keep him from joining the Force.”

The room went deathly still, as a silence settled over the group – a silence that felt thick and smothering and painful.

“No,” breathed Mace Windu finally. “It’s not possible. It can’t be.”

She sighed. “You may call Mirilent Soljan to verify it if you like, but I assure you that it’s true. For over nine years, he has survived enduring the agony of a broken, bleeding bond.”

“It’s not possible,” said Master Koth, glaring at her, daring her to dispute his conclusion. “If such a bond had formed – and then was severed – then he wouldn’t have been the only one effected. It would have . . .”

“He would, if the connection was never completed. If the source of the bond formed in his mind, but was never accepted by his Master. He likened it to a water hose, through which he poured out the energy necessary to maintain Qui-Gon’s life, but the other end of the hose remained unattached, directing the life-giving energy to where it needed to go, but without ever forming the final connection.”

Mace Windu clasped his hands on the table in front of him and turned to stare at his diminutive colleague. “Could it be true? Is it . . . .”

Yoda blinked slowly, and his ears seemed to droop even further. “Possible, it is. Happened in the past, it has, though only rarely. If this is true, a grave injustice we have done, to one of our own.”

Adi Gallia drew a deep breath. “And that’s not all,” she said, lifting her eyes to gaze straight into the face of Master Koth. “Is it?”

He stared back, unintimidated. “If you have something to say, my dear, then say it.”

“You were the Master of Assignments, Eeth,” she replied. “I checked. You personally assumed responsibility for his mission schedule. You, personally, sent him out . . . to die. Didn’t you?”

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer, but, after a pause, he surprised her with the serenity of his response. “He was the one weak link in our plan, the one who could ruin it all. He believed himself responsible for Qui-Gon’s death, and he was consumed with guilt; he _wanted_ to die. I merely gave him the opportunity to fulfill his fondest wish.”

She found then that, for a moment, she could not continue. 

_How very strange_ , she thought, _to learn that those you have believed in, those you have trusted all your life, are really total strangers, behind their masks._

She turned to study the face of the most respected of all the Jedi and was barely able to form the question. “Did you know?”

Huge, citrus eyes blinked as he refused to flinch away from the cold accusation in her glare, but he said nothing.

Mace Windu cleared his throat abruptly and hurried to break the growing silence. “Unfortunate as this all is, I suppose it hardly matters now. All will be made public soon enough, so . . .”

“So they’ve returned,” she said quickly. “I thought as much. Have they made a public appearance yet, or . . .”

“No. They’re still maintaining a low profile,” answered Master Koth. “But, if you’re interested, I believe they’ll be dining in the Masters’ private salon this evening. In a few days, all will be revealed.”

“All?” she echoed, with a cold smile. “Somehow, I doubt that. I think there are dirty little secrets that we will all carry with us, to our graves and beyond.”

“It was necessary.” The Zabrakian’s voice was thunderous.

She stood then and was amazed at the degree of her weariness. “Yes, yes. I’ve heard it all before, Eeth, that only the genuine, heartbroken, inconsolable grief of the padawan would be enough to convince the Sith lord that the death of the Master – and the Chosen One – was real. That his suffering was a small price to pay, to insure the security of the Master and the padawan that _must_ be trained. That he was Jedi, and he would survive. That pain and sacrifice are what make us all Jedi. Except that none of us were asked to make that sacrifice. That we took what he gave us – his devotion, his loyalty, his faith in what we are – and we turned it into something ugly and twisted. I’ve heard it a thousand times, that he would surely have given his life for his Master; that he actually tried to give his life, to save his Master. That the end justifies the means.”

She paused, and tried to steady hands that suddenly trembled uncontrollably. “I’ve heard it all, and it still makes me sick. It still makes me wonder how we are any different from the Sith. They take innocence and faith and distort it and destroy it and use it for their own gain. How – exactly – is that different from what we did, to one of our own?”

“We – had – no- choice!” Master Koth spoke through clenched teeth. “We could not risk losing the boy.”

She nodded, and turned to go, but she stopped and seemed lost in thought for a moment, before turning back to face them. “I don’t think any of you know how incredibly gifted young Kenobi has become. I begin to believe now, that none of you wanted to know. That every time he pushed himself further out into the galaxy, into the next high-risk mission, that all of you breathed a little easier, knowing you wouldn’t have to face him. Perhaps even knowing you wouldn’t have to take a hard look at the wounds we inflicted. But you should know this. He’s developed a network of informants and allies that is so complex, so intensely loyal to him and so extensive, that I’m not sure he even remembers it all. It’s allowed him to accumulate a stunning amount of information,- even more than what exists in our Temple data banks. And he’s also learned to co-ordinate and evaluate that data, with incredible speed and accuracy. He’s developed his own skills, and he’s augmented his abilities through the Force, which has allowed him to understand the ebb and flow of events in a way that few – if any - ever have. He _sees_ things, Masters, things that no one else can see. I think he’s seen a lot more than just the treachery of the Council, of the people to whom he once gave his heart. I think he’s seen a darkness that hovers over us now. I think he’s seen a dark road that is opening at our feet. I think he’s seen the end of our existence. He spoke of these things, and I felt the truth of it.”

“Have you analyzed the data yourself?” demanded the Zabrakian Master. “Do you concur with . . .”

She shook her head. “It’s not in the data,” she replied softly. “It’s what he sees.” She lifted her eyes then, to gaze out into the growing darkness. “I also found myself discomfited by what he did not say. Despite a wealth of information concerning covert operations, conducted by what the overly imaginative have called ‘a team of Jedi ghosts’, and other, even more ominous rumors, about a dim figure that keeps to shadow, with some agenda that no one understands, he mentioned nothing about it. Not even in his regular briefing reports. I think it’s all coming together, in what he sees.”

“Then he must be summoned here, to allow us to examine his visions,” said Mace Windu, still looking stunned and uncertain, a condition Adi was relatively sure he had never endured before.

She smiled. “Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

“Mean what, do you?” asked Yoda, eyes narrowing.

“He’s coming here,” she answered. “I’m not sure when, or how, but he’s coming. I’m just not sure that _he_ will be the one providing answers.”

 

**** ****** ****** ****** ******* *****

 

The existence of the Masters’ private dining salon was one of the few well-kept secrets within the Temple, considered necessary for the sanity of those senior Jedi who, momentarily driven to distraction by padawan learners gripped in the throes of adolescence and sexual awakening, required sanctuary. Still, it was seldom used, as retreating into its sternly enforced serenity was considered a bit of an admission of defeat. One came to the salon, when one simply could not cope for a single minute more.

Most Masters had taken advantage of the small chamber, at one time or another, but few lingered any longer than necessary.

But occasionally – very rarely – the chamber was utilized for a different purpose, guaranteeing privacy for those who, for whatever reason, were not yet ready to confront the Temple’s general population. Thus, it was, to some small degree, a place of secrets, of subterfuge, of illusions preserved and, occasionally, shattered.

Adi Gallia made a point of arriving early, assuming – correctly – that the narrow little chamber with its own tiny balcony overlooking an equally tiny scent garden would be extremely crowded and abuzz with excitement. As a Council member, she was entitled to a seat at the central table, and she took it without apology, choosing a spot near the middle, with her back to the wall and an excellent view of anywhere else in the room. Off to her left, an arched doorway led to the small chef’s kitchen, and the discreet clink of glassware and a low murmur of voices announced that the staff of this select area was busy preparing the small feast to celebrate this remarkable occasion.

How often, after all, did those long mourned as lost return from the dead?

Adi had opted for civilian garb, exchanging earth tones for amethyst and jade synthsilk, in the form of a braid-trimmed caftan, embellished with metallic embroidery. Beneath the unease that still gripped the Temple, there was a growing sense of festivity, of celebration, and she had decided that she should dress the part, but there was no joy, no elation, in her heart.

She sipped at her goblet of mulled wine and waited.

In good time, the other members of the Council currently in residence at the Temple joined her, and the buzz of conversation rose steadily. Other Masters and a few knights, widely recognized as Council favorites, arrived and found places around the room, and the wine flowed more freely.

Master Yoda joined the group finally, and his arrival was obviously the signal for the entry of the official guests of honor.

The door – non-descript and unmarked, in order to preserve the anonymity of the chamber – opened briskly, and all eyes turned to witness the return of the prodigal sons, as a heavy hush fell and the room grew still.

Adi Gallia looked up and felt her breath catch in her throat to realize that, barring a few more strands of silver in the rich chestnut hair, he had changed hardly at all. The face was the same – the very same face that she had last seen as a profile among the devouring flames of the funeral pyre.

She watched as he entered and saw the tall, graceful young man at his side, and she remembered.

_The young queen of Naboo had sent out scouts to find the Jedi, knowing that they had faced a Sith lord, and that it might be that neither had survived. And she had very nearly been correct in her fears._

_The soldiers had found them in the power station, the Master curled into the younger man’s lap, arms locked in an embrace that could not be broken, both alive, but only just. They had been transported to the field hospital, still clinging to each other, and Jedi healers had been summoned to repair the damage which traditional medical procedures could not._

_The extent of the Master’s injuries had been obvious to all, but the younger man seemed even closer to death than his Master, yet bore no visible wounds beyond a litany of bruises and contusions and an assortment of fractures, none of which appeared serious enough to account for his continued comatose state._

_Nevertheless, the Naboo physicians had done what they could, treating the elder Jedi’s injuries by immersing his body in bacta, and marveling that the massive trauma to his chest – the lightsaber injury – had already been partially healed when he had been brought in for treatment. They knew nothing of Force healing, nor of the tremendous energy required to accomplish it; thus, it never occurred to them that the continuing deterioration of the younger Jedi’s health was due to the outflow of Force energy which had initiated the healing in his Master’s body and continued to encourage it, even after the two were physically separated._

_Prior to the arrival of the Jedi Council and the healers they brought with them, the Master had made significant strides toward recovery, while the padawan steadily lost ground, slipping further and further into a fugue state, from which many believed he would not emerge._

_The Jedi healers, of course, had recognized the nature of the problem immediately, and moved to correct it. When the connection between Master and apprentice had been blocked by external intervention, Obi-Wan had begun to stabilize, but decisions made at that time, for reasons of expediency and political consideration that had nothing to do with his body’s need for healing, had dictated that he not be allowed to awaken until the time was right._

_Opportunity had presented itself, and the Jedi, ignoring any ethical misgivings, had seized it. Anakin Skywalker’s actions during the battle for the control of Naboo had done what Qui-Gon Jinn’s impassioned arguments could not do; the Council was convinced that the boy must be trained, and that only a Master of Qui-Gon’s strength and independent spirit could be entrusted with the task. But the Sith, it was agreed, would be watching, and must be deceived. The Chosen One must be protected. The solution was proposed, and accepted, and only a very few bothered to question the morality of the arrangement; the fiction of the death of both Master and Chosen One must be presented in such a way that there would be no room for doubt. Anakin, already spirited away to the secret location that would be his home during his training, could ‘die’ in an accident on a transport vessel, an accident which would occur during the journey to Coruscant, and the Master would ‘die’ from the injuries received at the hands of the Sith. The Naboo physicians, unfamiliar with wounds and traumas specific to Force users, would be none the wiser._

_For almost a full month, Obi-Wan Kenobi had been maintained in his comatose state, while arrangements for the great deception had been completed. In total secrecy, a clone body of Master Qui-Gon Jinn had been force-grown, as the Master himself had continued to heal. The Council had agreed, at Qui-Gon’s urging, that the wisest course would be to knight young Kenobi, once he was wakened from his unnatural sleep, and make arrangements for him to be sent out on a series of grueling missions as soon as he was sufficiently recovered, all in the name of distracting him from examining the facts of his Master’s death too closely._

_Though very young, Obi-Wan was known to be extremely bright and very gifted, and the Council felt it necessary to take extra precautions to make sure that he could not and would not question the sequence of events leading to his survival and Qui-Gon’s death._

_Adi Gallia had been one of only three dissenters among those who approved the final arrangements; only three who had insisted that the decision to exclude young Kenobi from participation in the plan, to damn him to the hell of total separation from his Master and the inevitable belief that he had been responsible for Qui-Gon’s death, was cruel and vicious and unnecessary. Only three, and Qui-Gon Jinn had not been among that number._

_Two days before the young padawan was scheduled to be awakened from his unnatural slumber, Master Gallia had been taking a turn sitting with him. Because of the necessity for total secrecy, the Jedi Council members, under the supervision of the tiny number of healers who were privy to the full facts of the arrangement, had taken over all nursing duties for their wounded brothers. To her surprise, Adi had discovered that she quite enjoyed the pleasant warmth of young Kenobi’s Force presence, and did not mind sitting at his bedside in the small room assigned to him in the Naboo infirmary. There was also, of course, the fact that he was quite beautiful in his slumber, so that watching him – caring for him – had become second nature to her, and a source of satisfaction ._

_She had been reading a book of poetry that the young queen of Naboo had provided, when a sound at the door had drawn her attention. Looking up and recognizing the individual standing there, she had started to speak, but found her words dying in her throat._

_Qui-Gon Jinn had moved into the room, still limping from his injuries, leaning heavily on a rough-hewn cane. He had, of course, known that she was there, but his eyes had been focused only on the slender figure lying so still and motionless in the narrow bed. It had been the first time – and would prove to be the only time – that he had seen his apprentice since that fateful day in the power station, and the look in his eyes, a terrible look of need and hunger and desire denied, had been one she would never forget. There had been something more, as well; something she had never been able to identify, but she had always hoped that it had been some tiny measure of regret, laced with a thread of shame. She had always hoped, but she had never been sure._

_A gentle shaft of sunlight had illuminated Obi-Wan’s profile, as his Master leaned forward and braced himself on the edge of the bed, and then spent several minutes in silence – just looking._

_“So beautiful,” he had whispered finally, either forgetting or - more likely - ignoring the presence of the silent witness to this moment of farewell, as he placed his hand against his padawan’s cheek. “It’s unfair that you should be so beautiful and so lodged in my heart. Someday, you’ll understand why this must be. Someday, you’ll know, and you’ll be mine again. Always, finally you will be mine, even if we never meet again. You will remain . . . mine.”_

_Adi had not meant to speak, but found, finally, that she could not remain silent. “He saved your life, you know, and it almost cost him his own. Do you know what this will do to him?” she had demanded, unable to grasp how he could allow this, to one he professed to care for so deeply._

_“It was the will of the Force, and he is Jedi. He will understand. The Force has guided us to this moment.” He had offered no other response._

_He had leaned forward then and kissed the sweetness of the young man’s lips, and then lowered his face into the soft hollow of Obi-Wan’s throat, where he paused to draw deep, ragged breaths._

_“Others will love you,” he had murmured then, raising his head and bracing his padawan’s face with his hands. “Others will make love to you, but inside, you will always know that you are mine.”_

_He had kissed that sweet mouth once more, long and slow and deep; then pressed his lips to each eyelid. “Mine,” he had whispered again. Then he had turned and walked away._

_Three days later, pale and still shaken from his ordeal, Obi-Wan Kenobi had ignited the pyre which consumed the body he believed to be that of his Master. On it, he had laid the coil of his padawan braid, sheared earlier that same day, as he had been elevated to knighthood._

_Though she had known it to be foolish, not to mention dangerous, Master Gallia had monitored the young man that first night, had seen that he slept very little, could not settle himself enough to meditate, and found it impossible to take in everything that had happened in so short a time._

_That night, his nightmares had begun._

She wondered, as Qui-Gon Jinn strode into the salon, larger than life and – as always – master of his fate, if the nightmares had ever ended.

When he saw her, his face was wreathed with a huge smile, and he came forward with outstretched hands. “Master Gallia,” he said heartily. “You grow more beautiful with every year.”

“So do you,” she answered wryly, limiting her expression to a small smile as her eyes drifted to his left, to acknowledge the presence of the young man who regarded her with a speculative gaze. “So, are we celebrating your triumphant return tonight, Master Jinn? And, of course, the coming of age of your padawan?”

The towering Master laughed, and the sound of it was rich and infectious. “He’s still very young, Adi,” he replied, and there was an unmistakable note of pride in his tone. “But he is ready, to step up and meet his public.”

“Yes,” she murmured, recognizing immediately that the pride of the Master was mirrored in the certainty in the boy’s ice blue eyes. “I’ll bet he is.”

******** ********** ********** *********

 

The meal served in the private salon for this special occasion was marginally better than that served in the Temple cafeteria, but only marginally. Jedi philosophy did not specifically forbid the appreciation of fine foods and libations, but it did set great store in simplicity and abstinence, so refined culinary arts were not in great demand within the Order. Nevertheless, the roast nerf, with its crispy herbal crust, was succulent and flavorful, the sautéed mirelles were glazed to tart perfection, and the tanisch bread was warm and fragrant and drowning in sweet butter. The wine, of course, was merely pedestrian, as the Temple did not maintain a cellar for discriminating palates, but it was mulled with a pert blend of spices and thus, rendered eminently drinkable.

Master Gallia ate little, preferring to concentrate on the atmosphere of the room, rather than the contents of her plate. As the meal progressed, she saw that she had been correct in her initial assessment. The ambiance of the occasion grew more and more festive as the night wore on. Despite his reputation as a maverick – which was well deserved – Qui-Gon had always had many friends among the upper echelon of the Order, and they had turned out in force to welcome him home. Even Adi, who had not always counted herself among the members of that group, was forced to admit that he had been greatly missed. It was good to see him back where he belonged, amused and amusing, sharing anecdotes and laughter with those who had been intimately involved with his life since his days in the crèche.

The evening was almost perfect.

Almost.

Anakin Skywalker confined his remarks to soft-spoken responses to questions directed to him. He was polite, obviously intelligent, and good-natured, but his eyes, thought Master Gallia, were unwarmed by the smiles that frequently touched his lips. He ate quickly, efficiently, and seemed to be indifferent to his food, consuming what was on his plate without comment. Even the caroba meringues, served with a flourish by a blushing young cook, with a sauce of flaming geiamboise, failed to elicit so much as a raised eyebrow, despite appreciative applause from other diners.

When he had finished his meal, he smiled pleasantly at his dinner companions and asked to be excused, pleading weariness and a need for meditation.

Only Adi Gallia, in the privacy of her thoughts, wondered why she doubted his sincerity. Then she suppressed a sigh. _Because you’re a bloody-minded, suspicious old witch,_ she admonished herself firmly.

The tall, well-built young padawan bowed with the perfect degree of decorum before making his exit, and more than one pair of eyes followed his progress across the room.

“Ah, Qui-Gon,” said Master Rimm’ka Florrsk, with a lascivious wink, “you still know how to pick ‘em. Although, to be absolutely objective, lovely as he is, he still doesn’t measure up to the – um, how shall I put this? – the incredible high level on the Ogle Meter of your previous padawan. And I’m sure you understand my meaning.”

Master Jinn pushed himself back from the table, having enjoyed his meal enormously, and regarded the Arkanian Master with a pleased smile. “I do, indeed, Old Friend. And you’re correct. I realized long ago that the sight of my Obi-Wan, walking away across a room, was surely the fourteenth natural wonder of the universe.”

The laughter that echoed around the table was good-natured and only slightly prurient.

“I’m sure you all remember the redoubtable Queen Scherzia, of Eloss Prime,” continued Qui-Gon, still smiling. “I took Obi-Wan there when he was sixteen, to mediate the dispute over mining rights on the planet’s moons, and the queen took one look at him, and then spent the next hour trying to eat him alive.”

“Oh, he must have been mortified,” remarked Mace Windu, barely refraining from laughing aloud, in the grip of a mental vision of the very large, very voluptuous, very green-haired Elossian queen, genetically blessed with six arms, swarming over the slender form of young Kenobi at that tender age.

Qui-Gon nodded. “He would have gladly dropped through a hole in the floor, had there been one handy. But I have to give credit where it’s due. Once I’d managed to free him from her clutches, she took me aside and told me something that turned out to be well worth learning. She and I had known each other for a long time, and she didn’t mince words.”

“So,” prodded Master Yaddle, “what did she say?”

He thought for a minute, and then pitched his voice in a breathy contralto, with a faint elongation of vowels to imitate the distinctive Elossian accent. “Qui-Gon, you don’t know what a treasure you’ve got there. Trust me, my friend, when I tell you that half the females he’s ever going to meet are going to want to take him on their laps, wipe his tears, and suckle him at their teats.”

He paused to take a sip of wine. “So I nodded, and asked the logical question: ‘And the other half?’.”

“Her reply was classic Scherzia. ‘The other half – and a large percentage of the males in the vicinity – are just going to want to fuck him raw’.”

There was a moment of uncertain silence, as the diners considered what he’d said. “And this was valuable, how?” It was Mace Windu who voiced the inquiry.

“Because,” replied Qui-Gon, lapsing into a broad grin, “she was dead right. One of the unspoken, unwritten, but absolutely critical rules for successful negotiation is to learn how to use whatever assets are available. So I did. I can’t even begin to guess how many treaties, trade agreements, territorial settlements, cease fires, and brokered accords owe their existence to my ability to choose the perfect moment to encourage my padawan to rise and lean across the table, to deliver a document or point out a spot on a map or engage a panel of a data screen. The sight of that delectable, fetching backside, stretched out across the conference table, provided such an elegant distraction that many objections, or simple disagreeable comments, were just forgotten, in the lust of the moment.”

Laughter erupted abruptly, but Adi Gallia was pointedly not amused, and she looked across the table to meet the eyes of Master Depa Billaba, who was also not laughing. 

“You know,” she said softly, “that sounds just a bit like some kind of visual prostitution to me. But I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that he’s still as delectable as he always was. And he still draws every eye in a room when he walks across it.”

For just a fraction of a second, all noise in the salon came to a halt, as a strange look flared in Qui-Gon’s eyes, a look she had last seen nine years before, a look she still couldn’t quite categorize. “You’ve seen him then? I thought . . . I heard no one sees him, any more.”

She nodded. “That’s true, after a fashion. No one _here_ sees him. He hasn’t been back here, since he left on his first mission, after Naboo. But I do, occasionally, climb down out of our crystal tower and mingle among the great unwashed.”

The towering Master was suddenly fascinated with the contents of his wine glass. “So . . . how is he?”

She opened her mouth to snap at him, to demand to know why he thought he had any right to even ask, but then she met his eyes, and saw it again. Saw the hunger and the need and, for one brief moment, something that might have been a pain of unimaginable intensity. And she could only sigh and answer honestly. “He’s beautiful, Qui-Gon. He still he takes my breath away. Even you couldn’t have known what he would become.”

“They said,” he started. Then he paused, apparently looking for the right words. “They said he was damaged. That he couldn’t function any more.”

Adi looked around at the assembled Jedi and wished that this conversation had occurred in a more private arena. She wasn’t terribly comfortable discussing Obi-Wan in such a public venue, but she conceded that she was probably just being silly. Obi-Wan Kenobi, despite having spent his entire career darting from one remote corner of the galaxy to another, was still a legendary figure among the Jedi; the Sith-killer; the only living member of the Order who could lay claim to that title. The details of his life were certainly common knowledge.

Still, speaking of him so casually felt like a betrayal. “You should ask him yourself,” she said finally. “But it would be a mistake to assume that he is less than he was. A Jedi finds ways to overcome obstacles. You, of all people, should remember that.”

He studied her face for a moment, before nodding and returning to his inspection of his goblet. “I kept track of his missions. He was . . . amazing. Wasn’t he?”

Adi started to answer, started to agree, when the full meaning of his admission struck her. He had watched; he had kept track.

She closed her eyes and felt a horrible vertigo sweep over her, sending her into a place she did not want to be, to a knowledge she did not want to possess.

Slowly, breathlessly, she got to her feet, and looked around to find Master Eeth Koth staring at her, before lifting his eyes to exchange telling glances with Master Jinn.

She paused to collect her thoughts, before turning to confront Qui-Gon squarely. “Tell me,” she said softly, “that you didn’t know. Tell me that you didn’t agree to send him out to die. Tell me . . .”

With a heavy sigh, the towering Master rose to face her. “I thought . . . I believed he wanted . . .”

Abruptly, she raised her hand, to silence him. “You were right, you know. He did want it, but he was better than any of us could have known. Better than even he knew. And now – now he’ll have to know it all, won’t he? How will you tell him, Qui-Gon? How will you explain why you sent him out to die? How you expected him to die. Was it, I wonder, because you continued to believe that, no matter what you did, he would always belong to you. That he was yours, to do with as you pleased. Even if it meant that he must die to prove it.”

“Adi, I didn’t . . .”

“Don’t bother,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to hear it.”

She moved quickly toward the exit, and felt the Force swirling around her, as if it too were confused and undecided. As if it, too, were ashamed.

She hesitated at the doorway and looked back toward the group still seated at the center table, and she realized that Master Yoda had been silent throughout the evening, volunteering nothing, contributing nothing to the conversation. He sat staring at her now, meeting her gaze squarely, but she could read nothing in his eyes.

“He’s right, you know,” she said softly, speaking only to the diminutive Master who was the eldest – and wisest – of them all. “The Sith don’t have to do a thing to destroy us. We’ve done it to ourselves.”

 

***** ******** ********** ******** ******* 

 

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_“I think maybe I only know one thing in this world. One thing for sure. And that is that the truth does not set you free. . . . . . . . . . The truth does not salvage you or make you whole again. It does not allow you to rise above the burden of lies and secrets and wounds to the heart. The truths I have learned hold me down like chains in a dark room, an underworld of ghosts and victims that slither around me like snakes. It is a place where the truth is not something to look at or behold. It is the place where evil waits. Where it blows its breath, every breath, into your mouth and nose until you cannot escape from it. This is what I know. The only thing.”_

_The Narrows_ \--- Michael Connelly

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had barely taken ten steps into the hushed corridor before he felt it and was almost driven to his knees by the sensation.

“Obi?” The young man at his side – tall and well-muscled, with thick chestnut hair, sun-bronzed skin, and deep-set brandy-colored eyes – paused in mid-stride, waiting to give his companion time to adjust. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I should have fuckin’ realized it would be overwhelming, after being away for so long.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi drew a shaky breath and managed a small smile. “I can’t believe I could have forgotten what it feels like.” He closed his eyes then, reaching for composure. “So many. So many. I haven’t touched so many since . . . “

“I know,” said Knight Garen Muln, when his friend fell silent. He draped an arm across Ob-Wan’s shoulders, and laid his forehead against his temple. “Just take your time. Settle into it. It’ll ease off in a bit, and you might want to refocus your shielding. You’ve spent so many years keeping yourself closed off within your mental barriers, that you’ve forgotten how to adjust them to keep everyone else out.”

Kenobi nodded, and stretched out through the Force, seeking and finding the strength to reinforce the natural shielding that allowed him to remain an individual entity within the complex network of inter-connecting fibers of the Jedi Order.

They remained silent and motionless for a few minutes, and Obi-Wan was grateful for Garen’s patience, as well as the not-so-subtle soothing energy that flowed to him through a bond almost as old as he was, a bond that was neither Force-born, nor Jedi-forged. Instead, the knights were joined by something much simpler, formed when two very small boys, each cradled in the gentle embrace of Jedi affection and touched by the tenderness of the Force, but still, somehow, very much alone, had sought kinship and comfort and discovered it in each other. They were not linked mind to mind, nor Jedi to Jedi, through the Force. They were linked heart to heart, by bonds composed of links forged from the simplest form of love; they were friends who could not remember when they had not been friends.

“Better?” asked Garen after a while, understanding, as few others could have, how difficult the coming day would prove to be for his childhood companion.

Obi-Wan took a deep, ragged breath. “I don’t know . . . if I can do this, Garen.”

“I know,” came the whispered response. “But you can’t just walk away now. You have to see it through. If not . . .”

“If not?” Jewel-toned eyes, wide and vulnerable and glazed with weariness that contrasted sharply to the freshness of morning, were suddenly set ablaze by reflections of sunrise pouring scarlet and amber through arched windows looking out toward the East.

Garen knew that evading the question would do more harm than good. “If not, it’ll fuckin’ destroy you, Obi-Wan.”

Knight Kenobi, younger than his old friend by a grand total of nineteen days, ran his fingers through his hair before making a conscious effort to regain his composure and recapture the image of serenity. He made no attempt to convince himself that it was anything more than an image, understanding that, sometimes, even for a Jedi knight, the illusion had to be enough.

“How do you feel?” asked Garen, as they resumed their walk toward the Temple core.

Obi-Wan surprised both of them when he chuckled softly. “I can’t even begin to describe it. It’s like standing balanced on the sharp edge of a saber, and knowing that every choice . . . is a bad one.”

Garen nodded. “But some are worse than others.”

Their gazes met then, and pale shadows in Obi-Wan’s eyes expressed his own misgivings. “Yes. Some are. Am I wrong, Garen? Have I made a huge mistake?”

Unexpectedly, irrepressibly, Garen grinned. “Only in giving that fuckin’ reprobate the keys to the kingdom.”

But in this one area Obi-Wan apparently had no uncertainties, and the tranquil assurance of his response was completely genuine. “I trust him, and so should you.”

“I just hope it’s the head on your shoulders you’re thinking with, instead of the one on your cock.”

They arrived at the central rotunda of the Temple, and Obi-Wan paused to savor the loveliness of the soaring chamber, with its profusion of flowering shrubs and trees, the mirror-like surface of its reflecting pool, and the bright splash of water from its cascading fountains. In niches set around the perimeter of the circular space, statuary carved from slabs of Debrillion marble, in brilliant shades of emerald and garnet and amethyst, veined with silver and obsidian, represented the legendary figures of Jedi history, each illuminated with a distinctively tinted glow, generated by the focusing crystals that had powered their lightsabers, all now awash in the roseate luster of dawn. And behind the heroic figures, in a sweeping arc of polished japniastone covering fully half of the great chamber’s circumference, glinting dark jade in the embrace of the sun, measuring almost thirty meters high, stood the commemorative monument – the Wall of Remembrance, bearing the names, acid-etched, of every Jedi believed to have perished in the line of duty since the birth of the Order. Thousands upon thousands of names, of lives given up for the preservation of peace and the defense of innocence.

It required no Force sense to be awed by the magnitude, the scope of the memorial. It commanded reverence, even among those who could not actually hear its voice. For the Jedi, there were no words to explain the depth of its meaning.

As a result, there was a perpetual hush that lingered over the vast space, even when it was crowded and hectic – a hush that was a part, somehow, of the grand music of the Jedi, the orchestration of time and space and life that came together in the confluence that evolved into the symphonic resonance of the Order.

No one ever expressed it quite that way, of course. The Jedi, for all their skills in articulation and eloquence, were not much given to poetic commentary, but they felt it, sometimes. Even the most mundane and pragmatic among them occasionally recognized that there was a symmetry in the ebb and flow of history and time, and accepted, on some non-verbal level, that they must all contribute a scrap of melody to the grand sonata of their existence.

Like all great musical masterpieces, it consisted of both bright soaring descants and dark basso undercurrents that surged and retreated and vied for supremacy, eventually spiraling together to create the finished work of art.

To stand at the center of the great rotunda, and gaze up at the names of those who had gone before, was to feel the spirit of that music, and to know, in some small way, one’s place within the symphony.

It was overwhelming, like vision suddenly restored to a blind man, and, for a time, Obi-Wan could do nothing but stand and try to absorb it, without getting swept away into a chaotic dimension of raw emotion from which few were ever able to return to rationalism.

With a desperate attempt to rein in his sensitivity, the young knight deliberately turned away from the Wall, and focused only on the simple process of breathing, on the sweetness of the scents in the air around him, and the warmth that filled his lungs. He could still feel the grandeur of the musical composition, but the flood that had threatened to consume him had begun to recede. Once he regained his composure, the heavy orchestration settled into orderly patterns, and the chorale into individual voices.

Obi-Wan wouldn’t choose to phrase it in such terms, of course, but he knew instinctively, as did his friend, that it was not a tenor moment toward which they were moving.

“He has no reason to lie,” he said finally, returning to the subject of their disagreement, after allowing himself time to adjust to the emotional surges engendered by the setting and the beauty around him, a beauty virtually unchanged since his last visit here, when he had not been so much a visitor, as a fledgling venturing out of the nest for the first time.

He actually flinched slightly, startled when he felt his companion’s fingers grab – and pinch – the tender flesh of his backside. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” drawled Garen, pinching harder, for emphasis. “I can think of one or two things he might want to keep for himself. Not to mention a couple of old debts he might want to repay.”

“People change, my friend,” Obi-Wan observed gently. “Especially when everything they’ve ever known is taken from them or distorted in such a way that they can no longer recognize it.”

Garen studied his friend’s face carefully, not sure what he wanted or expected to see. “Who are we talking about here, Obi? Him, or you?”

Obi-Wan extended his hand, and smoothed the hair back from his friend’s face. “Or all of us,” he answered. “Today, we all confront our own personal shatterpoints.”

The dark-haired knight grimaced. “Shit! I know I’m in trouble when you start quoting fuckin’ Windu.”

His companion grinned. “That’s _Master_ fuckin’ Windu to you, Peon.”

Garen continued to look disgruntled. “Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one who spent four rotations having to do his laundry and scrub his fuckin’ ‘fresher when we got caught planting that spybot in his bedroom.”

“That’s because I didn’t get caught,” retorted Obi-Wan. “You should have listened when I told you to run.”

“Fuck that! You don’t really think he didn’t know, do you? You forget. As part of my detention, while cleaning his john - and I’m not going to give you all the gory details of that little adventure – I got a look, a good look, at his porn stash. Would you like to take a guess whose fetching, barely clothed little ass was front and center in every holopic?”

“Master Yaddle?” Obi-Wan’s grin was infectious.

“Eeeyuu!” moaned Garen. “Not before breakfast, please. No! The only reason you got away with that – among a million other things – is that the legendary, sainted, ultra-dignified Master Windu wanted nothing more in life than to get his big, greedy hands into your pants, and the only thing that stopped him . . .” Abruptly, he fell silent, upon realizing that he was treading on the edge of painful memories.

“Was Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan said quietly. Today would be a day overflowing with such memories, he knew, and it made little sense to start it off by voiding them. After all, it was all part of his purpose in coming here. His eyes were gentle as he looked up and saw the distress in Garen’s expression. “It’s all right, you know. You can say his name. It doesn’t have the power to hurt me. Not any more.”

Garen pursed his lips, and looked around the great rotunda, dark eyes flashing. “You know what?” There was a sudden harshness in his voice, a simmering resentment that was an integral part of his identity, and a clear signal to those who knew him well that he was about to say something outrageous.

“What?” Obi-Wan echoed, a wisp of a smile touching his lips. He had known Garen too long not to recognize signs of an incipient bout of defiance, of what Garen termed “shaking one’s fist in the face of the gods”.

“Fuck ‘em! Fuck ‘em all! Right?”

The smile expanded into a grin. “Absolutely.”

“It’s too fuckin’ early for this shit, and I don’t suppose it would be a good idea to go haul the high-and-mighty out of their snug little beds. I mean, what if – Force forbid – some of them, even one of them, finally managed to figure out a way to get a piece of ass, and we interrupted their coitus. That, my friend, would be a tragedy of epic proportions. A once in a lifetime disaster, since everybody knows that the reason they all act like they have a lightsaber stuck up their asses is that they can’t figure out a way to fuck somebody and maintain their dignity at the same time. So . . .”

“So?” Obi-Wan had progressed to snickering by this time. No one but Garen would dare lampoon the powers that be with such total disregard for station or stature.

“So which do you prefer? A commissary breakfast – they’re probably serving Dagobah mucus this week – or . . .”

“Or?”

“Or I could kick your ass around the main training salle to kill a bit of time. Unless he breaks every speed record in the books, along wth a few fundamental laws of physics, and flattens a few bystanders along the way, we’ve got at least a couple of hours to wait. Nobody’ll be in the salles this early, so we’d have plenty of room and all the equipment to ourselves. And frankly, you look like you could use an excuse to beat the shit out of something.”

“Are you volunteering to be my punching bag?”

Garen waggled his eyebrows lasciviously and beamed with satisfaction when his ploy succeeded, and the snicker became a rolling laugh, as the dark-eyed knight reached out and planted both hands on Obi-Wan’s butt. “If you’re interested in my bag, Beautiful, all you have to do is say so, though I’d rather you didn’t punch it . . . exactly.”

“You’re incorrigible,” chuckled Obi-Wan, “and one of these days, someone’s going to take you seriously and rat on you to Rhimbo, who’s going to extract your balls with a rusty spoon and serve ‘em to you sliced, diced, and sautéed.”

To his surprise, the mischief in Garen’s eyes faded, and the dark-haired young knight lifted his hands to cup his friend’s face. “He knows what you mean to me, Obi. Fuck, if I ever let anything happen to you, I’d be the one who’d never get another piece of ass. He’d never forgive me, any more than I’d forgive myself.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” replied Obi-Wan with a sigh.

“Why?”

“Because it makes it really hard for me to take advantage of the chance to kick your sorry ass into next week.”

With a blinding grin and an insolent glare for the two still-drowsy senior padawans who happened to stroll across the rotunda at that moment, meandering as if they couldn’t quite remember where they were supposed to be, Garen leaned forward and claimed Obi-Wan’s lips in a quick, bruising kiss, while giving one last pinch to what had once - back in the day - been voted “Padawan Ass of the Year”.

Then he sprinted off toward the nearest bank of lifts, spinning once to make sure his challenge had been noted and accepted. Obi-Wan, with a shout of laughter, closed the distance between them, skidding into the waiting lift in a near dead heat. As the doors closed, the banter raged on.

\- ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

He had always believed that it was something of a cosmic joke that sunrise and sunset on Coruscant should be so spectacular. A world which had nothing left of its natural splendor, which had become as artificial in its own way as the great, metallic space stations that were scattered along the paths of the major galactic trade routes, should not provide a setting for such a majestic display of natural grandeur.

He thought, perhaps, he rather resented it, for it seemed to mock – just slightly – the belief that the beauty of the natural universe was tied irrevocably to the intensity of the great energy field that connected all living things. 

The Force was strong within the Jedi Temple, of course, flowing from and to and through the thousands of individuals who made their home there, to whom the natural power was as real and physically present as any living, breathing entity; and it was strong, though in a different way, as an almost visible emanation generated by the billions who inhabited the planet.

But Coruscant itself was a dead planet. Nothing lived there that wasn’t sustained artificially, and, should the vast network of machinery ever fail, all life on its surface would be snuffed out in a cosmic moment.

Master Qui-Gon Jinn, nevertheless, continued a practice that had become habitual for him when he was very young. Every morning, without fail, during those periods when he was in residence in the Temple, he would settle himself comfortably on the small balcony fronting his quarters and watch the spectacle of dawn splash its abstract artwork across the dark canvas of the sky. It had always been a time of peace for him, a chance to renew his serenity, to contemplate, with contentment, his place in the grand design of the universe, and to allow himself a tiny nuance of pride – even a drop of complacency – over his achievements. It was a small personal ritual that was, perhaps, not quite Jedi, but he had always assured himself that it was essentially harmless and that he deserved at least this small repose, this trace of satisfaction.

It was incredibly good to be back at the Temple, to be able to put the charade to rest, finally; to allow life to regain its natural shape.

It was, in fact, almost perfect. Almost, but not quite. Not yet, for there was still one vital element missing, one component that was necessary to the resumption of the life he was meant to live, the life he had earned in all these long years during which he had been forced, finally, to confront his own truth.

He had, after all, given up . . .

A small, completely involuntary gasp rose within him, a tiny disruption in the peace of the moment, and – in its wake – the searing blaze of an old, unresolved pain.

Only here, in the deepest, most carefully hidden recesses of his mind, had he ever admitted the truth.

He had given up . . . everything.

It should not be true; for a Jedi, secure in his identity, it could not be true. The Force, first, last, and always, should be, _must_ be, everything to one who fully embraced the Jedi concepts of service and humility. There could be nothing else – ever – that would take priority over that single-minded dedication, in the soul of a committed Jedi.

He knew it; he believed it; he had lived it.

Except . . . that he hadn’t. Not in the core of who he really was. There, where his heart was, lay the ugly, unvarnished, damning truth.

He had clung to his duty, and followed the path set for him by the Force, and he had hated every minute of it, had even come, most recently, to resent the power that compelled him to accept his fate; had even come, finally, to resent the source of the conflict that had made his devastating choices necessary.

He didn’t think anyone knew; he was, after all, a Jedi Master, and, if he couldn’t bury his own emotions so deeply that no one would ever find them, he would be unworthy of the title. And there was also the fact that such a thing was virtually unthinkable.

Jedi Masters did not – absolutely would not – come to resent and distrust their padawans.

Especially when the most fundamental reason for the resentment was a simple negative circumstance for which the padawan in question could not be held accountable.

Qui-Gon leaned forward and braced his arms on the balcony railing, and watched the dizzy patterns of early morning traffic blend and interact, perfectly orchestrated, like the steps of some marvelously complex ballet, as he continued his melancholy musing.

There were, of course, many reasons for the misgivings he had developed concerning his padawan’s achievements over the years; he was not quite the besotted fool, blinded by Anakin’s dazzling abilities, that so many believed him to be. Early on, he had recognized his padawan’s arrogance, and his casual willingness to manipulate and exploit everyone around him, but he had initially assumed that such traits were the natural aftermath of the boy’s tragic history, and would be outgrown once he understood that his future was bright and his place among the Jedi, secure. But it had not quite worked out that way; Anakin was no longer motivated by fear or insecurity. He no longer doubted his worth. Quite the contrary. What Anakin doubted now, was the worth of those he was sworn to serve.

The apprentice had worked with single-minded determination to achieve a specific personal goal, a goal he believed he had successfully concealed from his superiors; he had perfected the ability to project an almost seamless image of tranquility and self-control, thus camouflaging his emotional state beneath a façade of Jedi serenity. He was convinced that his surface persona was perfect, impervious to penetration, and he was almost right – would have been entirely right – if not for two factors he neglected to take into account.

His Master, despite having done a number of foolish things in his life, was no fool, and – beyond Qui-Gon’s pragmatic acumen – there was a tiny being who, for all intents and purposes, was the living repository of the wisdom of the ages.

Both Qui-Gon Jinn and Master Yoda were aware of the anger and impatience, and the callous assumption of his own superiority, that continued to seethe beneath the placid exterior of Anakin Skywalker, and both had begun to consider the possible consequences of allowing the situation to continue. With every passing day, it seemed more and more likely that some form of intervention would be necessary, though neither had been able to formulate a plan of action with a reasonable chance of success.

Qui-Gon sat back, and sighed when he felt the beginning of a headache forming behind his eyes. More and more of late, thoughts of his padawan and the thousands of possible permutations of his future, had given rise to a tension that could not be dispelled by normal means. The Master was beginning to think he might have to pay a visit to the healers for help in ridding himself of a growing tendency to migraines, and wouldn’t Mirilent Soljan just love that. He didn’t have to stretch his imagination very far to visualize her smirk of satisfaction.

The sun was brighter now, frosting the forest of spires and towers and pedestrian bridges stretched out below it, with drifts of liquid gold.

Anakin, who had declared, quite early in their association, that he had seen more than enough sunrises over the barren sands of Tatooine, was still abed, probably exhausted from his exertions of the previous evening. Qui-Gon had chosen not to indulge his Masterly privileges when he had risen, bypassing the boy’s room without reaching out through the Force to learn if Anakin was still entertaining a guest. When he had returned from dinner the previous evening, after lingering over a very satisfactory brandy with a group of old friends, there had been the unmistakable odor of adolescent hormones and sexual fervor in the common room of their quarters, but Anakin had already retired and a quick trace through the link of their training bond had confirmed that the boy was sleeping. It did not, however, indicate whether or not he was doing so alone, and Qui-Gon had refrained from pressing the issue.

Anakin was unique. Not even Xanatos, whom Qui-Gon had once heard described as “the hungriest cock in the Temple”, had been as voracious in his appetites, nor as flagrant is his efforts to appease them, as Anakin. Xanatos, for all his rutting habits, had been discreet in the presence of his Master. On the other hand, getting caught ‘in the act’, so to speak, had become almost routine for Anakin and his ever-growing circle of partners – male or female, human or not – and Qui-Gon was growing more and more concerned that the only one who seemed to be embarrassed over such confrontations, was the Master. His apprentice seemed almost pleased to exhibit his prowess; pleased . . . and hungry.

And Qui-Gon knew, of course, who was the focus of that hunger. Just as Anakin knew that it was a hunger that would never be assuaged.

_It had happened on a small planet in the Minos Cluster, after an elegant state dinner party celebrating a hard-won treaty, featuring a little too much smug self-satisfaction, and a little too much native ale._

_Qui-Gon still blamed himself for his loss of control, but understood, on some subliminal level, that it had probably happened for the best. When sixteen-year-old Anakin had slipped into his Master’s bed, slick with sweat, aching with need, hard as durasteel, and clothed only in desire, the Master – deep in the grip of a dream about a slender body which had once been his to claim as his own – had responded with violent hunger, devouring the boy’s mouth and enclosing him in a bruising embrace. Then, breaking from the kiss, he had buried his face in the softness of the padawan’s throat, and moaned softly._

_“Oh, my Obi-Wan. You are my heart.”_

Old lines of regret formed around the Master’s mouth as he remembered that moment, and the suddenness of the silence, and the incredible depth of the hurt in Anakin’s eyes as the image of the dream was overwritten by the face of reality.

It was an image he would have preferred to forget. 

Anakin had leapt to his feet and run, as far and as fast as he could, and the following morning, he had been cloaked in the image of the perfect padawan – stoic, composed, calm, silent. They had never discussed what had happened. There had been no need for such a conversation, as both understood what had been said and what had not been said between them.

And therein, of course, lay the crux of the problem, the fundamental reason why Qui-Gon had begun to dislike his apprentice.

Anakin was not Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan, who, though he had not come to his Master’s bed as a virgin, had come with his innocence intact; had offered himself out of an incredibly sweet love and dedication and loyalty, carrying a purity in his heart and soul that Anakin, through no fault of his own, had never possessed. Obi-Wan, who had known nothing of greed, or self-absorption, who had given everything he had, even offering up his life, only to be . . .

Abruptly, Qui-Gon rose, in the manner of one who wants nothing more than to leap into some other reality, some place where the pain of the moment is but a memory.

He had not lied to Adi, had not even intended to lie to her, when she cut him off. Yes, he had known about Obi-Wan’s missions; had known what Master Koth had done; had consoled himself by insisting, in his own mind, that it was the will of the Force, that he had no right to interfere, that his duty lay with the training of the incredible child who had tumbled into his life under the impetus of destiny. It was meant to be; he had told himself that constantly. And when he had begun to notice that the child was not quite the golden ideal that he had originally perceived, he had continued to cling to his old beliefs, because, by that time, he had no choice. He _had_ to continue to believe; otherwise, he would have been forced to deal with another possibility, an alternative truth that he simply could not bear to contemplate.

But even that was not the whole truth. The whole truth – he could hardly stand to admit it to himself – was simply embarrassing.

For his entire life, he had claimed to trust only in the Living Force, to be guided only by the urges that existed within the moment. So how could he now concede that he had allowed himself to be swayed and consoled by a different type of reassurance, a source of certainty that he would have rejected out of hand had it originated from someone else?

He closed his eyes, and sighed. No one else would ever believe it, but, somehow, he must find a way to make one particular person believe it.

He had allowed Master Koth to do his worst, to send his former apprentice into the clutches of what appeared to be certain death, not once but many, many times, because he had known there was nothing to fear. He had known – viscerally, in the depths of his being – that Obi-Wan would come back, that he would be safe, that he would endure. That he would wait, because Obi-Wan had a destiny to fulfill.

His former padawan belonged to him, to Qui-Gon Jinn. It was not open to question or interpretation. The Force had given him this one gift, this one pledge, this consolation for everything he had endured, every loss in his life, every lonely night he had spent.

Obi-Wan would not – could not – die, for he was destined to spend his life, from this day forward, devoting himself to the renewal of the love that had dominated his youth.

Obi-Wan was everything, and Qui-Gon had cursed himself over the years for his obstinate refusal to accept that truth, and for coming so late to that realization. He had never spoken those words to anyone; had never been able to make that admission. Had never even believed himself capable of a love so profound. The Master huffed a small exhalation that morphed into a rueful smile. 

_You can do better than that, Jinn. The simple fact is that you never believed yourself capable of love, at all. You never wanted it, never thought you needed it, and you let him go, when you should have held on and refused to be parted from him. Now – now, you’re going to have to work at it, to lure him back. What if he . . ._

But he would not visit that thought, would not contemplate the possibility of failure, for it simply could not be. The Force had promised him, and the Force would never lie.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“So,” drawled Garen Muln, stripped down to undertunic and leggings and bouncing on the balls of bare feet, “you want to dance, Kenobi, or you want to get into some serious shit?”

Obi-Wan launched into a series of stretching exercises, to limber up muscles and sinews. “If I wanted to dance,” he replied with a grin, “I’d be looking for some sweet young thing with a cute little ass.” He deliberately let his eyes slide down Garen’s lean body and linger on the swell of his hips. “Not you.”

“Listen, you little bastard,” laughed Garen, striking a pose and moving his backside with a quick bump and grind, “this ass is listed in the Galactic Register of Natural Wonders.” 

Obi-Wan paused for a moment, going still and studying his friend’s face. “Garen,” he said quietly, softly, something tentative and slightly confused in his tone. “Why do you think we never . . . I mean, you and me . . .”

“Are you coming on to me, Beautiful?” The prurient gleam in Garen’s eyes was priceless.

Obi-Wan tilted his head and grinned. “And if I did?”

The gleam warmed, and became something else. “No way, Kenobi. We’ve been through too much to settle for fuck-buddy status.”

“Fuck-buddy status?” echoed Obi-Wan, obviously confused.

“Listen up,” replied Garen, taking on an avuncular air. “This is important stuff. There are three groups of important people in your life, my friend. There are lovers, and we both know how rare those are. Then there are fuck buddies: good for a laugh, or sharing a few drinks, or taking the edge off when you’re horny. Pals, chums, cronies: guys you like, guys you’d fight with – and for – but they exist _around_ you, never touching what’s inside. And then, there are friends. Like you and me. Friends that live . . . inside of who you are, in your heart.” He paused then, and there was suddenly no humor in his eyes. “And that’s too important to fuck up by falling in bed together.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes were filled with tenderness. “You have a unique way of looking at life, Old Friend. So – you want to philosophize, or you want to fight?”

Garen’s laugh was rich and loud. “You are so dead.”

They started slowly, circling each other, smiling, feinting, watching, waiting for opportunity or inspiration to strike, as the early morning sunlight poured through ceiling high windows, creating bright copper lights in Kenobi’s hair, and warm glints in Muln’s eyes. Together, they created quite a lovely tableau.

As usual, being a practitioner of the more aggressive saber style, Muln went on the offensive first, leaping forward with a spin thrust designed to distract the target with upper body action while the real threat came from a delayed sweep of the leg. But Obi-Wan was not fooled. The two had sparred many, many times over the years, and neither was going to give up an easy victory. Garen was taller, with a longer reach and greater bulk and brute strength; Obi-Wan was marginally faster, and more athletic, with a greater facility in aerials. Because of the damage to his hand, he had been forced to develop a different grip, and adapt a style that allowed him greater flexibility, so that he could favor one hand over the other without giving up any advantage. The result was a style that was uniquely his own, and an adaptation that looked more like a preference than a compensation, which prevented most opponents from ever noticing the existence of the handicap. 

They moved together effortlessly, still warming up. A few more feints like the first, a bit of back and forth with appropriate banter, and the match began in earnest when Obi-Wan flipped forward over Garen’s left shoulder, landing in a crouch and sweeping his opponent’s feet out from under him.

Had anyone been watching – which no one was, yet – it would have been immediately obvious that this was to be no polite, kata-inspired exercise; this was a fight, not to the death, of course, but to its approximation. Garen went down hard, and the two tumbled over each other, remembering to extinguish sabers in such close quarters. Obi-Wan regained his footing first, and re-ignited his lightsaber with a flourish, as he leapt for the first level of the balance beams that criss-crossed one section of the huge chamber, but he had no opportunity to gloat, as Garen was right behind him, saber swinging at knee level as he settled at a slightly lower surface. At that point, they went into full sparring mode, with thrust and parry, point and counterpoint, leaping from one crossbar to another, each seeking any minute advantage, but neither finding much.

When Garen succeeded in penetrating his opponent’s defenses with a sudden upthrust of linked forearms, Obi-Wan wheeled backwards and tumbled toward the floor almost fifteen meters below. A non-Jedi would have been at risk of serious injury, but the young knight simply allowed himself to enjoy a few moments of free fall, before angling his body toward an upright support that was part of the framework of the platforms and swinging around it, allowing his momentum to propel him out across open space, to land on the lowest of a series of catwalks that angled upwards toward the eastern wall.

“Catch me if you can,” he laughed, lightsaber swinging in to score a hit on his opponent’s outstretched hand as he whizzed past a disgruntled Garen who had just begun his descent and could not recover quickly enough to avoid the blow. But both knew the battle was just beginning. 

Sweaty now with the exertion of their efforts, both paused to discard inner tunics before taking off at a run, each determined to gain altitude. When they had progressed to the highest crosswalk, they met at the midpoint, and resumed their thrust and parry, and intricate footwork, the advantage, like a pendulum, swinging between them. When Obi-Wan lost his footing, falling back against a flexible handrail, Garen swooped in for the deciding blow, only to find his target flipping back over the railing and finding footing on a parallel support girder, allowing him to dance away from the bite of Garen’s topaz-colored blade.

“Why don’t you just give up now?” shouted Garen, vaulting over the railing, only to find a bright azure blade completing a brisk upper cut that would have – at the very least – left him with a stump for a left arm, if the blade were fully powered. To avoid the blow, he threw himself face down on the narrow duracrete surface on which they were balanced, and allowed himself to slide forward, upending Obi-Wan in the process. The two went down in a tangle of arms and legs and breathless laughter, before young Kenobi simply rolled to his right, clearing the edge of the beam and twisting in midair to land on his feet. Muln was right behind him.

This maneuver found them at the lowest level of the graduated platforms, and they elected to forego the upper levels for a time, by leaping to the floor, and initiating a series of Force-enhanced parries, with blades flashing at incredible speeds, in intricate patterns, as their bodies moved in perfect grace, complimenting each other with dazzling complexity. The battle had become a masterpiece of choreography, without either noticing the transition, as they continued to focus their concentration totally on each other, noticing nothing of the environment around them.

Thus it was that the gradual gathering of an audience, which became less gradual as time wore on, went unnoticed by the two principals of the battle. The contest continued, covering every surface of the chamber, accentuated by the banter for which they still managed to find breath.

The first to arrive on the scene were younger padawans, scheduled for elementary saber exercises prior to the beginning of their classroom training. There were about a dozen of them, and they watched in open-mouthed silence, so enthralled and enchanted by the display that they forgot to be annoyed at not getting their chance to handle their own practice sabers. They were content to simply sit and watch. All of that changed, however, with the arrival of the next group – older padawans, many of whom had already taken courses in Temple history; it was inevitable, therefore, that at least one among them would realize what – and who - they were watching.

The whispers started off very softly, very tentative, but they quickly grew louder and surer.

 _“Kenobi.”_

The name seemed to float on the air, like a wisp of smoke on a windless day – lingering, drifting, and getting thicker as more and more whispers joined it.

And through the dim corridors of the waking Temple, the word spread outward, like ripples in a pond.

_“Kenobi.”_

And the steady stream of arrivals swelled, as Temple staff members and a growing number of young knights were lured by the giddy murmurs.

_“Kenobi, the Sith Killer.”_

“What would _he_ be doing here?” demanded a mid-level padawan, with a sneer. “He never comes here.”

But another simply folded his arms, and looked smug. “I’d know that twisting slide-step with the over the shoulder thrust anywhere. Master Fisto even tried to demonstrate it for us, but he said that Kenobi was the only person who’d ever managed to do it consistently. Some guys even call it the Kenobi Slide. I’m telling you; that’s him.”

And the whispers continued and intensified, as the crowd grew thicker.

Finally, the battle ended in the only way a contest between two such equally matched opponents could end – the victor determined by an element of random chance. Obi-Wan had charged up a short section of stairs, pausing on the shallow landing to twist himself into a contortion that would have been impossible without Jedi flexibility, in order to meet the overhand sweep of Garen’s weapon, his counterthrust locking the two blades together, as each vied for position to overpower the other. By this point, both were drenched with sweat and beginning to feel the burn of abused muscles, but neither was willing to yield as the grinding hum of the friction between the two blades vibrated through their bodies and set their teeth on edge. At last, recognizing a deadlock that could not be overcome by brute strength or determination, Obi-Wan feinted left, to disengage and continue his ascent, leaping up to gain leverage by pushing off the upper framework of the stair railing, a vintage framework which was not as securely bolted to its moorings as it should have been, having withstood many years of this very same type of abuse. The railing wobbled once, before giving way completely, and the young knight sprawled to the floor, the fall too short to allow him time to access the Force to cushion his landing. His recovery was quick, but not quite quick enough, as Garen took advantage of the moment and leapt down to sprawl over his opponent, positioning his humming saber bare centimeters above Obi-Wan’s throat.

“Yield!” The demand was barely a whisper, as neither of them had much breath to spare.

“Fuck you!”

Garen grinned, and quickly traced his thumb across Obi-Wan’s lower lip. “Didn’t we already have this discussion?”

They laughed together then, falling into each other’s arms and were totally unprepared for the thunderous upswelling of applause and cheers that broke over them.

Carefully, they avoided looking around, staring into each other’s eyes. “Oh, shit!” said Obi-Wan softly.

Garen grinned. “Unless my memory fails me, I believe someone mentioned that our arrival here should be low-key and discreet.”

Obi-Wan groaned and rolled his eyes. “Me and my big mouth.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Given the proliferation of crises across the galaxy, with an ever-escalating demand for the personal attention of the most renowned representatives of the Order, it was rare for all members of the Council of Twelve to be present for a council meeting, and this occasion was no exception. When the morning session convened, just as the first pure beams of sunlight poured through the eastern windows, three seats remained empty, and the nine who were in attendance spent the first hour of their official day perusing reports provided by the missing three.

Except for minor procedural questions or requests for clarification, they did not discuss the information provided by their fellow Councilors, in the certainty that any Jedi worthy of membership in this august group required no oversight by his or her peers. Questioning the decisions made in the field by these Jedi – Masters all – would be tantamount to challenging their authority.

It was simply not done.

Of course, on a few occasions over the decades, it had been done, but the last such incident was nine years in the past, and no one had any desire to resurrect either the practice, or the memories of that sad event.

At any rate, the review of information provided by fellow Council members was, barring catastrophic developments, little more than a formality, requiring only minimal focus while allowing each of the vaunted Masters to organize thoughts, consider priorities for the remainder of the day, or contemplate more serious issues awaiting the Council’s attention, which would require more weighted concentration. Of the nine who were present and accounted for, seven followed this informal protocol exactly, preparing themselves for conducting the day-to-day business of the Jedi Temple, which was much more nuts and bolts than grand policy and noble endeavors, a reality that would have shocked the rank and file of the Order, in that there was actually very little glamour or glory involved in executing the duties of a seat on the Council. That, however, was a fact that the Councilors, by tacit agreement, kept to themselves.

So it was, on this particular morning, that Masters Yoda and Yaddle used this preliminary hour to mentally review their plans for creating a new survival-training program to be implemented on Dagobah’s southern continent; Master Koth considered the ramifications of a report just received from an undercover operative who had successfully infiltrated a spice smuggling syndicate in the Kessel sector; Master Ki-Adi-Mundi pondered how to summarize the promising discoveries of a team of healers working on perfecting organ cloning techniques; Master Depa Billaba weighed her options in selecting a final site, from a list of four possibilities, for further exploration in the search for a new source of saber crystals; Master Oppo Rancisis contemplated the psychological profiles of the two young Corellian knights who had applied for permission to enter a lifebond, preliminary to undertaking an extended, exploratory mission into the uncharted territories to identify civilizations suitable for first contact and uninhabited planets available for colonization; and Master Plo Koon, eyes obscured by the pale fumes venting from his facemask, compared the merits of proposals from two competitive plumbing contractors for replacing the Temple’s antiquated (and faltering) water heating system.

All normal pursuits for this first hour of the session, when discussion was minimal and input neither solicited nor required, but for the remaining two of the nine assembled, it was not exactly business as usual.

Mace Windu, in typical Windu fashion, presented his customary image of dignity and cool aplomb, betraying nothing of the thoughts seething beneath his tranquil surface. Only someone who knew him very, very well might have noted that the hands he clasped before his face were clinched just a bit too tightly and that his breathing was not quite as measured as it might have been. His eyes, dark and liquid and actually quite beautiful, were trained on the etched and polished surface of the copper-sheathed dome crowning the Intergal Stock Exchange as it collected and dispersed the growing strength of the sun, but what he was actually seeing was something quite different.

As second-in-command of the Council of Twelve, he was a man known for his pragmatism, with neither the time nor the temperament to tolerate metaphysical nonsense; he did not have visions. He had never had visions, and, if pressed to divulge his deepest beliefs, would have confessed that he had little faith in prophets or their predictions, although he was prepared – if grudgingly – to accept the prescient capabilities of the eldest and most skilled of all the Jedi. Nine years earlier, he had listened to the claims of his lifelong friend, Qui-Gon Jinn, concerning the discovery of the so-called ‘Chosen One’, and he had managed, barely, to keep his opinions to himself, but he had not believed.

He still didn’t, but . . . .

The previous evening, he had looked into the eyes of Qui-Gon’s apprentice, crystal blue eyes set into a pleasing face with a ready smile, and observed that Anakin Skywalker seemed to be the epitome of everything a Jedi padawan should be. And it was as he focused on that thought that he had felt a shiver racing up his spine before he was abruptly immersed in a deep, frigid darkness that seemed to pour over his spirit like some oily excrescence. He could not explain it; could not understand it; had no idea how he knew it, but something within him insisted that those beautiful eyes concealed the black heart of a predator, a monster that would devour all hope, all light.

He had spent the remainder of the evening in silent observation, hoping to see something that would make him doubt his moment of precognition, hoping to find some alternative explanation for his growing sense of foreboding. He had even considered the possibility that he was allowing his view of Anakin to be influenced by his long-lived resentment of the manner in which Qui-Gon had betrayed Obi-Wan Kenobi by casting him aside in favor of a new apprentice; given his own feelings for young Kenobi – feelings never expressed or even acknowledged, but terribly deep and real, no matter how hidden – he conceded that such influence was possible, but he didn’t think so. As an adept of the Jedi Order, he had a remarkable ability to examine his own thoughts processes and motivations with complete objectivity.

Throughout the evening and on into the wee hours of the morning, he had looked for an excuse to disbelieve what he had seen.

He had found nothing but a growing assurance that he had been right in the first place, and he debated whether or not he should speak of his misgivings, and, if so, to whom.

On the other hand, Master Gallia made no attempt to focus her thoughts, realizing that such an effort would be futile. She gazed out into the radiance of the morning and wondered how much events now in motion might change the course of the future, and if the change would be for better, or for worse. She was no longer sure that she could even tell the difference.

She only knew that they had all had a role in creating the destiny unfolding now before them; they had accrued a great, cosmic debt and an accounting was now due.

There was nothing more for her to do but wait for her cue. She did not delude herself; she was only a bit player in the drama to be presented here this morning. The arrival of the star would signal the rise of the curtain.

Fortunately, the wait was brief, as she had concluded quickly that the concept of a member of the Council of Twelve pacing the Council chamber like a hungry gundark was simply beyond the limits of acceptable behavior. After the somewhat unorthodox landing maneuvers of a beautiful, privately-owned corvette had stirred gossip in the landing bay and questions about how the pilot, obviously not a Jedi, had obtained landing codes had been dismissed, it was a matter of only a few minutes before the wait was over. The rhythmic flicker of a precise sequence of lights on her communication panel was barely visible under the deluge of liquid brilliance pouring in from the east, but the signal itself was unnecessary anyway. Adi had noted the spike in the intensity of the Force, as had her colleagues, though she alone understood the reason for it.

She rose and allowed her eyes to sweep around the chamber, touching on each of her fellow Councilors, before speaking.

“I must beg your indulgence, Masters. A matter of grave concern has arisen unexpectedly, and one of my operatives has petitioned to be allowed to address the Council immediately.”

It was Master Yoda who turned to study her face, a slow blink of his eyes signaling his displeasure. “Bypassing procedural protocols, you are, in making this request. Reason for this, is there?”

Many Jedi – even fellow Councilors – might have flinched beneath the subtle rebuke of the question, but Adi Gallia was not one to flinch easily, no matter what the provocation. “It is a matter of some delicacy, Master, a matter that the Council may not wish to become the subject of common gossip within the Order.”

“May we know the name of this operative?” asked Mace Windu, and Adi studied his face, wondering if the nuance she heard in his voice could really be a trace of amusement.

“Knight Garen Muln,” she replied and watched to see if the name would provoke uneasy responses in any of the Council members. When it did, she was barely able to suppress a tiny smile.

“I fail to see . . .” Master Koth was not quite able to mask the anger simmering beneath the cool surface of his persona, and Adi observed, not for the first time, that mighty Jedi Masters frequently failed to practice what they preached, but not even the formidable Zabrakian dared to oppose the eldest and most honored member of the Council of Twelve.

“See him, we will,” said Yoda, ignoring the comments of his colleagues.

Mace Windu was silent, has face as still and forbidding as a Kleitu funeral mask, but his eyes were dark with dread.

Adi nodded, and closed her eyes, reaching out through the Force, feeling for the familiar, beloved presence of her former padawan. She smiled when she touched his mind, and savored the rare blend of insolence and innocence that was uniquely Garen, but the smile died when she extended her thoughts to brush against the shadowed presence at his side.

The huge double doors swung open, and two figures were silhouetted against the bright light of the vestibule. Both started forward, striding briskly, challenging anyone to dispute their right to enter.

“What . . .” The voice resonated like the crack of a whip. "What is _he_ doing here?” Master Windu stood rigid, struggling for composure, a sight so rare as to be unprecedented.

Both Garen and his companion continued forward, their pace steady. “He is here,” replied the young knight, “on my guarantee of safe passage.”

“You had no right,” said Master Koth, also on his feet.

The two young men arrived together at the midpoint of the chamber and came to a stop, standing straight and tall and unintimidated. Garen wore a tiny, slightly venal smile, but his companion didn’t bother to try to hide the contempt in his ice blue eyes.

Prince Xanatos Aji, high prince of Telos, endured the scrutiny of the Council with a complete lack of self-consciousness, wearing the demeanor of his station in life like a suit of armor.

“You haven’t the authority to grant such a guarantee,” said Mace Windu, glaring at the young knight who gazed back at him with an air of indifference.

“No, but I do,” said Adi firmly. “He also has my guarantee.”

“And mine.” The voice from the vestibule seemed to slice through tension that was so thick it was almost visible in the air around them, as three more figures were framed in the doorway.

“Who . . .” The inquiry was aborted abruptly as Master Yoda, moving with extraordinary speed and agility for one of such advanced years, leapt down from his chair and hastened to the center of the chamber as a slow smile wreathed his face.

“Learned much, have you, Youngling,” he said softly, extending his hands to greet the slender figure coming toward him. “Sense your presence, I did not. Not so fooled have I been in many years.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi, despite his determination to guard himself against manipulation by those who knew him best, could not resist the urge to drop to one knee and allow the tiny Master to touch his face with gentle hands. “It’s been a long time, my Master,” he replied.

Huge, citrus eyes blinked slowly. “Too long. Missed you, I have, young Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan regarded the elder statesman of the Jedi with wounded eyes. “Yes. I believe you have, but duty comes above all things, doesn’t it? I wish . . . “

“Be still!" Yoda’s voice was suddenly sharp, commanding, as he leaned forward and placed his hands against Obi-Wan’s temples. “See for myself, I must. See if . . .”

His voice trailed off then, as his eyes drifted closed, and, for a few moments, there was no sound, no movement within the Great Chamber, as Obi-Wan endured the mental probe, wincing slightly against the pain of the intrusion. Even the Force seemed to hold its breath.

When the tiny Master lowered his hands, and stepped back, his face was drawn and contorted with lines reflecting a deep, echoing sadness. “Told us, you should have,” he whispered. “Alone, you should not have been, to suffer this.”

Mace Windu stepped forward then, and, for one surrealistic moment, Obi-Wan almost believed the dark Councilor would reach out and wrap the young man in a crushing embrace. Of course, he did nothing of the kind, but he did favor Obi-Wan with a strange, penetrating gaze that was almost painful in its intensity. “It’s true, then? The soul bond is real?”

Master Yoda sighed deeply, and nodded as Obi-Wan rose to his feet. “Real, it is, and torn.” He moved then to return to his chair, and, in the process of regaining his seat, he triggered a comm-signal.

“But that’s impossible,” said Depa Billaba, eyes filled with a terrible awareness. “How could he live with that?”

“He . . .” Master Koth started, obviously still outraged.

But the Prince of Telos had had quite enough of being ignored, and had no intention of allowing Obi-Wan to be emotionally dissected for the amusement and enlightenment of the Council members. “He lived with it as best he could,” he said firmly, “and no thanks to the benevolence of the mighty Jedi.”

“Xan,” said Obi-Wan softly, one hand clinched tight against the other, “don’t. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” said Garen, speaking up for the first time. “If what we suspect is true, it matters a lot.”

Mace Windu continued to stare at Obi-Wan for a time, before looking beyond him to the two figures still motionless in the open doorway. Recognition came immediately, of course; these were faces instantly recognizable in any corner of the galaxy.

“Chancellor Valorum, Senator Organa,” said the Council’s second-in-command, “may I ask why you are here? We were unaware that you wished to speak with us.”

Finis Valorum smiled, radiating warmth and wisdom, and everyone in the room felt the magnetism of the man’s personality and understood how he had risen to such heights in the ranks of galactic politics. The fact that he no longer occupied the Republic’s highest office did not change the fact that he was a man of great influence and a repository of political wisdom. “We will defer to Knight Kenobi, Master Windu. We are here, as observers only.”

“I don’t understand,” said Master Billaba. “Observers of what?”

Obi-Wan huffed a soft sigh. “They’re my insurance policy.”

Master Oppo Rancisis had maintained a tense silence throughout the exchange, but he rose now, and stared at the new arrivals with ill-concealed distaste. He had never particularly liked young Kenobi, and he saw an opportunity here to make an example of the young rogue, who was altogether too much like his former Master in his arrogance. “This is outrageous, and I suggest that Master Gallia should be censored for violations of our rules of order, along with these two knights, for appearing here in the company of a common criminal. It’s obvious that this is all some kind of ruse to disrupt the unity of the Council. What can they possibly say that we should hear?”

Xanatos favored the outraged Councilor with a sardonic smile. “I’ll concede that the term ‘criminal’ might be appropriate, but I have never in my life been ‘common’.”

With a gesture obviously intended to convey an unsubtle message, Obi-Wan reached out and reassured the Telosian prince with a quick caress, while his eyes locked with those of Master Windu. “Surely,” he said softly, “if I have earned nothing else through all these years, I have, at least, earned the right to be heard.”

It was painfully obvious that Windu wished to dispute that statement, wished to find a way to terminate this confrontation, but couldn’t. “Yes, you have. But I must ask you to explain Aji’s presence here. Surely you realize what a difficult position you put us in by bringing him before us.”

The young knight’s smile was sardonic. “Oh, yes, Master. I can assure you that I do know about being put in difficult positions. Xan is here, because he provided a great deal of the information I plan to present to you. Because he’s in a position to corroborate and validate much of the data we’ve amassed.”

He paused then, and allowed his eyes to sweep the circle of Councilors, carefully evaluating the finer nuances of emotion that revealed themselves in the tiny details of each Master’s demeanor: the set of a mouth, or the firming of a jawline, the shift of shoulders or the flutter of eyelids, the clinch of a fist. Over the years, Obi-Wan had become extraordinarily skilled in the interpretation of body language, so that he was able to discern that there was much anger here and much fear and, in a few cases, traces of affection, even some small semblance of remembered love, dying still, but not yet forgotten or consigned to the past.

“He’s also here, because he has been my anchor, my shelter from the storm that rages constantly within me, and because I want him here. I need him here.”

“And the others?” asked Yoda, long ears twitching, betraying a trace of annoyance. “Insurance policy, you say? Trust us so little, do you, Obi-Wan?”

The young knight’s gaze was level and unyielding. “Did you really expect anything else? Chancellor Valorum and Senator Organa are here to insure that I’m allowed to walk out of here when this meeting is finished, whether the Council wills it or not. I am no longer so naïve as I once was, Masters; I no longer give my trust so willingly, and I do not think that even the vaunted Council of Twelve of the Jedi Order would risk offending a man of the Chancellor’s stature or a senator of the Republic.”

“This is the Jedi Temple,” snapped Ki-Adi-Mundi, “to whom you have pledged your oath of loyalty. How dare you question our honor? Are you renouncing your oath?”

Obi-Wan sighed. “I rather think that it has renounced me.”

He moved forward then, and placed a tiny information chip into the dataset built into the arm of Yoda’s chair, but he stepped back without activating it.

“The information that we have collected over the past year is all recorded on that chip – dates, times, places, corroborating data. Holo-images, eyewitness testimony, documentary evidence. It’s all there. Proof of the existence and the activities over the past nine years of a Jedi team – Master and apprentice – operating in deep cover. Evidence of a secret training base, of clandestine missions, of operations undertaken that far exceed the limitations of Jedi mandates sanctioned by the Senate.” He paused and allowed himself a small, bittersweet smile. “We could activate the chip, of course, but I hardly think that’s necessary.” He looked up then, and there was ice in the depth of his eyes. “Because all of this is something you already know. Something you’ve always known. Isn’t it?”

The silence was absolute – heavy and breathless and smothering.

“Isn’t it?” His voice was sharp suddenly, like a blade biting deep into tender flesh.

The answer, when it came, was from an unexpected direction, from an alcove set on a diagonal angle to the main entry.

“It is.” 

No one moved. There was no need, as that voice – that deep, resonant baritone voice – was instantly recognizable to everyone within the chamber. 

Obi-Wan, tapping into an inner core of strength that he hadn’t known he possessed, was the first to recover, the first to turn, managing, somehow, to stay on his feet, to remain upright, when everything within him, every scrap that was left of his sanity, screamed and tried to claw its way through his rational mind to reduce his thoughts to gibberish. But he was first only by a matter of moments, as Xanatos was at his side, one hand bracing his shoulder, before he completed the motion.

The two figures standing just within the enclosure of the alcove were stroked with shadow, and something in a remote niche of Obi-Wan’s consciousness remarked that it was an appropriate setting for them.

The young knight’s eyes settled on the smaller of the two, noting the febrile brightness of crystal blue eyes and reading the fury behind them with perfect clarity. “Hello, Anakin. For someone who’s been dead for nine years, you’re looking remarkably animated.”

The padawan inclined his head, very slightly. “Knight Kenobi,” he acknowledged, very cool and rational, obviously convinced that he was concealing his rage beneath a perfect façade of equanimity.

Qui-Gon Jinn stood transfixed, his eyes devouring his former apprentice, aware of nothing beyond the presence of the young man standing before him. Some small segment of his mind must have registered the identity of the individual at Obi-Wan’s side, but his mind dismissed the recognition as unimportant, trivial.

Obi-Wan spared a single, piercing glance for his former Master before turning back to inspect the faces of the Council members, all of whom seemed suspended at that moment in an agony of indecision. For once, none of them seemed to know what to say or what to do.

“Do you know,” he said slowly, “what you did to me? Do you know that I longed for death, just so the pain would go away? Do you know what guilt does to a person, how it eats away at everything inside? How it destroys your own belief in what you thought you were? Do you know that every mission, every task you set for me, was just a means to an end, a way for me to atone for my failure?”

He turned then, to face his very-much-alive Master. “Do you know that I came to hate the Force, because it took from me the only thing I loved, and left me alone, with nothing but the memory of how he rejected me? How he abandoned me in his rush to claim the almighty Chosen One as his own? Do you know what it is, to wake every morning and curse the dawn, because you want nothing more than to go to sleep and never waken?”

He spread his arms then, his eyes unfocused, looking out into the morning, but seeing only the dark stain of betrayal. “When everything is gone, when a man is empty and lost, he becomes nothing but a shell of himself. That’s all I am now – an empty shell. Nothing is left of the man I was.”

Once more, he looked at the Councilors. “I could have handled it all, you know. If you’d explained it to me, if you’d told me that this was the only way, that my Master was destined for greater things than training someone who would become nothing more than a ‘capable’ knight; that both he and the boy must appear to die, to protect them from the Sith, I would have done everything you asked of me. I would have accepted the same missions, lived the same life. Walked away and never bothered him or you again. But I find now, that I have one question that I can’t simply discard. One question that I need answered.”

“What did I do,” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, “to earn this? Why did you . . .”

The silence grew more solid, more intimidating, broken only by the harsh rhythm of his breathing as he finally allowed himself to sink to the floor, Xan and Garen beside him.

“Why?” he repeated, fists clinched tight against his thighs, voice coarse and rough with desperation. “Make me understand it, please.”

Mace Windu stepped forward finally, when it became obvious that no one else would; he did not want to give voice to a truth that he knew could never be justified, but he had no choice. Obi-Wan had certainly earned the right to ask. “We believed we were following the will of the Force, Knight Kenobi,” he said gently. “That the only way to convince the Sith of the reality of the deaths was to use your grieving and your suffering as validation. The reasoning was that no one would believe that the Jedi would allow one of its own to suffer so, unless the circumstances were real.”

“We believed,” said Adi, “that it was necessary, to save the Order. To save the Order, we sacrificed you.” She did not add that she had been one of the voices of dissent, that she had objected strenuously at the time, and had continued to do so over the years.

“Oh, gods,” Obi-Wan moaned softly, burying his face against Xan’s chest. He had known it, of course, but it was surprising how much the verbal acknowledgement still hurt.

“Obi-Wan.” 

Qui-Gon Jinn, in the years of their separation, had lost nothing of his ability to move in total silence, betraying nothing of his approach.

Though careful to maintain a discreet distance, he knelt before his former apprentice, his eyes starving for the image before him, devouring the sight of that precious face, too long removed from his vision. In his mind, he felt the stirring of the Force, the shattered remnants of the bond he had not recognized until just moments ago. It whispered to him, called to him, like a siren’s song. And if it compelled _him_ to reach out – to complete what had never been completed – how much stronger must it be within his former padawan, who had lived with the writhing torment for so many years?

“It’s over, Obi-Wan. No matter what you’ve endured, and I can’t tell you how much I regret your pain, it’s over now. You don’t have to hurt any more. You don’t have to be alone, or suffer any more. Your grief was given up for a noble cause; you’ve saved the Order, through your sacrifice. And now – now we can restore your life to what it should be. Where it should be. With whom . . . .”

Desperately, Obi-Wan twisted in the embrace of his two friends, and wrapped his arm around Garen’s neck, reaching up to whisper something in his friend’s ear. Three words – three desperate words.

Garen’s response was a brisk nod, after which he gently turned his friend into the embrace of Xanatos Aji, and stood, backing away from the kneeling figures who were the focus of all attention. Indeed, so compelling were the interactions of that group that no one, except for the two observer/politicians, noticed when he slipped entirely out of the chamber.

“You haven’t answered my question,” said Obi-Wan, barely audible, accepting comfort from the arms that enclosed him. “I want to know how you could do this to me.”

“We’ve told you the truth, Obi-Wan,” replied Mace Windu. “I know it’s not much comfort, but that’s all there is.”

Obi-Wan sighed, and looked up to meet Xanatos’ cerulean eyes. “Not quite all,” said the Telosian, speaking with perfect cold precision. “You also sent him out to die, didn’t you?”

Master Koth had the good grace – finally – to look embarrassed. “We gave him what he wanted.”

To everyone’s surprise, including himself, Obi-Wan managed a small chuckle. “And that excuses it all, doesn’t it? You gave me what I wanted.” He turned then, and looked directly into Qui-Gon’s eyes. “You gave me what I wanted. I gave up everything I had – every ounce of lifeforce within me – to save my Master’s life, so you could take him away and let me believe that my failure was complete. Let me understand that I lived, when I should have died to save him. Let me believe that I had even failed in my last promise to him, because Anakin was lost. You let me strike out on my own, nursing the ruptured, bleeding stump of a torn bond and trusted in the cruelty of random chance to solve your problem for you. If I died, still stricken with bottomless grief, then all risks would be tied up neatly and disposed of. All I had to do, for the good of the Order, was co-operate by getting myself killed.”

He paused then, his left hand in spasms against his chest, until Xanatos engulfed it with his own slender fingers, stroking it to stillness. It was a gesture of exquisite tenderness, and it was suddenly all too much for Obi-Wan. 

“I trusted you,” he said in a very small voice, as tears welled in jewel-toned eyes that moved to touch each member of the Council before coming to rest on the face of Qui-Gon Jinn. “I gave you my heart, my soul, my everything. I would have died for you, almost _did_ die for you a hundred times.” 

He drew a deep shuddering breath, and took a moment to reach for composure. “I trusted you,” he said again, “and you used me as the means to an end.” He smiled then, with tears trailing from the corners of his eyes. “I trusted you, and all you had to do was ask. But you couldn’t do that, could you? Because, in the final analysis, _you_ didn’t trust _me_.”

“That’s not true, Padawan,” said Qui-Gon firmly. “I did trust you, just as I trust you now. You know what must be done. It’s time to stop running, to stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s time to come home, to be what you were meant to be. To be . . .”

“To be what, Qui-Gon?” snarled Xanatos, pulling Obi-Wan back against his chest. “To be . . . yours? Is that what you were going to say?”

For the first time, Qui-Gon looked up to meet the eyes of the apprentice who had rejected him and all things Jedi, in the quest for material wealth and political power. Some tiny portion of his consciousness wondered why the confrontation was so painless – so remote – almost as if he were addressing a figment of thought, no more than a ghost of the youth he had known. “Yes, that’s what I was going to say. The Force wills it, Xan. Even you must feel it. He is meant to be mine, was always meant to be mine. That’s why he was never in any great danger, because this was meant to be, and you dare not interfere.”

Xan smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Old Master Mine. I dare a great deal. And Obi-Wan is not the docile, dependent fool you think he is. He knows exactly what this bond would mean for him.”

“Meaning what?” Qui-Gon demanded.

The Telosian looked up to study the face of the eldest member of the Council. “Ask the troll,” he replied. “He knows.”

When Qui-Gon turned to fix Yoda with a questioning gaze, the senior Councilor sighed. “Uneven the bond is and will always be. Too much of himself he gave up; no way to regain the balance is there. If the bond is completed, he will be bound to you completely, unable to resist your will, unable to retain his independence. Completely subordinate to you, in every way. For you, the bond will bring great joy and completion. For him, he will lose . . . whatever he has managed to retain of the person he once was. He will become no more than a shadow of you.”

“But he’ll be content; he’ll be at peace,” Qui-Gon argued.

Yoda shrugged. “His pain will be forgotten, along with everything else. It is uncertain how much he will remember or understand.”

Xanatos looked unbearably smug. “Is that what you want for him? Is that what he wants?”

Master Jinn turned back to study the face of his former padawan, and felt something within him flex and harden. This was his Obi-Wan, and no one was going to stand between them. It was the will of the Force, and the Force was never wrong, and, when a tiny voice in the back of his mind sneered at his self-serving certainty, he chose to ignore it.

Slowly, moving with the sinuous grace of a great catling, Qui-Gon uncoiled himself, rising to his full height and balancing on the balls of his feet, every line of his body proclaiming his readiness to defend his claim.

Xanatos actually grinned, dropping a kiss on Obi-Wan’s temple as he got to his feet.

“It’s time to settle this,” said Jinn coldly. “And this is the surest, quickest way.” 

Moving with Force-enhanced speed, and catching everyone by surprise, he knelt again and lurched forward, his hands reaching out to brace Obi-Wan’s face. It was a maneuver too swift for anyone to counter, except . . .

He never reached his target. “No!” The scream tore from Obi-Wan’s throat, raw enough to shred tissue and cartilage, as the bloody fragment of the soulbond broke loose in his consciousness and sliced into him like a laser blade. And the scream soared, shrill and painful, but around him, visible only as a pale icy radiance, the shield created by his wounded, panicked mind held fast, as he curled into a fetal crouch and resisted the repeated attempts of Qui-Gon Jinn to break through. 

Which only spurred the Master to redouble his efforts, in the certainty that the knight could not continue to repel his advances for long; he would not give up, would not be thwarted.

He reached again and found himself staring at the business end of a purple lightsaber, bare inches away from his face.

“This stops here,” said Mace Windu, his blade as solid and motionless as stone. “Nine years ago, we raped his mind. I’m damned if I’m going to stand by and watch you rape what’s left of him.”

Master Jinn simply stared at the man he had known all his life. “You would draw your blade, against me?” he gasped.

The Councilor was calm and determined. “He is not your property, Qui-Gon, and it’s time you learned that.”

Once more, no one had noticed when the massive doors swung open to readmit Garen, accompanied by one very small, very agitated Bimar.

“One more move, Jinn,” – the voice was harsh and raucous, and Qui-Gon shuddered under its impact – “and I haul you up on assault charges.”

Healer Mirilent Soljan sailed into the chamber with all the focus of a laser-guided missile, justifying Obi-Wan’s complete faith in her which had prompted his urgent instruction to Garen. “Get Mira. Hurry!”

“Get away from him,” she snarled.

“But, Mira, it’s . . .”

She fixed him with a frigid glare. “Don’t even bother with that will-of-the-Force shit. It’s never worked on me before, and it’s not going to work now. He said, ‘No’. I heard it, and so did everyone else here. Unless I dozed off and woke up in a different dimension, in which Jedi knights are slaves to the whims of the Masters, he has that right.”

Ignoring everything and everyone around her, she dropped to her knees at Obi-Wan’s side, and laid her hands against his face. “It’s me, Love,” she crooned softly. 

“Mira,” he whispered, relaxing slightly, “I knew you’d come.”

Her smile was radiant. “Have you ever known me not to come, when you called?”

“Never.”

“How are you, Love?”

“Cold,” he answered, unable to stop the shivering that seized him. “And it hurts, Mira, more than before. I think it’s time . . .”

She nodded. “It is, but not here. Xan?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Have you got that flying pleasure palace with you?” she whispered.

“If you’re talking about the _Jeweled Sea_ , I never go anywhere without it, Ma’am.”

“Then I want you to take him out of here, and get him off planet. Somewhere they won’t find him. Get him warm - submerged in warm water would be best - and comfortable. Then send for me. It’s time to fix this problem. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he murmured, “but it won’t kill him, will it?”

She looked down at the trembling figure under her hands and sighed. “You think this is living?”

He sighed. “No, Ma’am.”

She scowled at him then, and there was no mistaking the fire in her eye. “I’m going to help you, Xan. I’m going to help both of you, but you better be good to him. Or else. And Xan?”

He was busy by this time grasping Obi-Wan’s hand, and marveling, for the millionth time, over the incredible colors of his young lover’s eyes. “Um hmm?”

“Don’t call me ma’am.”

He grinned, and barely refrained from giving her the sassy response she probably expected. Instead, he nodded, and reached down to lift Obi-Wan to his feet, and found that Knight Muln had already grabbed one arm to provide balance. Young Kenobi was groggy, and reeling slightly, but he resisted their efforts to pull him toward the doorway.

“Wait,” he said firmly, despite the pounding in his skull and the weakness in his knees.

“Obi,” said Garen, “we really need to . . .”

But Obi-Wan was determined. With the help of his companions, he managed to steady himself, and turn to face the Council and his former Master, all of whom were staring at him, uncertain of what would happen next. Somehow, the universe had shifted beneath them as the sun rose higher in the sky; somehow, nothing would ever be quite the same again.

With remarkably steady hands, Obi-Wan reached down and detached his lightsaber from his belt, took two steps forward, and laid it at Master Yoda’s feet.

“No,” breathed Master Jinn. “Obi-Wan, no. Don’t . . .”

But Obi-Wan refused to look at his former Master, keeping his eyes trained on the senior Councilor. “I regret that I must renounce my oath to the Jedi Order, Master. There is no trust left in my heart or in my mind. I would have willingly given you everything I was, but you chose to take something that no one should have been compelled to give. I have tried to find it in my heart to forgive you, but I can’t. So I suppose you were all right all along. I was never fit to be a Jedi. May the Force be with you all.”

He began to turn away, but was forced to pause as Garen Muln also stepped forward. “There is no explanation that you can give to justify what you did to a knight of the Order, a comrade, a friend, a child nurtured and molded to be part of this family. A family couldn’t have done this. I also no longer believe.”

And he laid his saber down, stopping only to exchange a tender look with his former Master. For her part, Adi did not try to stop him; indeed, she was tempted to follow him.

“”You must not mention this to anyone,” said Master Koth loudly. “You must not spread this calumny.”

Chancellor Valorum and Senator Organa exchanged troubled glances, speaking volumes of dismay. What, each wondered, had happened to the Jedi? Where had honor and nobility gone?

In the end, it was Xanatos who paused to answer. “You needn’t worry about leaks coming from us, Old Friends. Obi-Wan didn’t go into everything that’s included on that datachip, but you’d be well advised to go over it carefully.” He shifted slightly then, and his eyes drifted toward the young padawan who still stood within the shadows of the alcove. “There is much more there than you might think, things that you do know, and things that you don’t. A ghost team of Jedi, and a shadowy figure that some refer to as the Enforcer. We never uncovered his identity, of course, but, with a bit of effort, and the application of logic, you might just figure it out for yourselves.”

He smiled then, and spared a fond look for Adi Gallia. “At any rate, the greatest threat to the Jedi rises from within. Consider this: how could you have convinced yourselves that what you did to one of your own - entrusted to your care as a child – was right and decreed by the Force? Perhaps the Sith have only to wait, until you are destroyed by your own willful blindness.”

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon called, barely able to control his desire to rush forward, to reach out and gather his former apprentice to him, and refuse to let him go.

Only Xanatos turned to look at him, and there was finality in his eyes – the death of hope.

The three companions moved quickly through the doorway, preceded by the energetic figure of the plump little healer, and followed by their neutral observers. 

A heavy hush fell upon the chamber as the lift doors closed behind them, and Qui-Gon Jinn, legendary Jedi Master, settled to his knees, as his strength deserted him.

“Obi-Wan,” he whispered then, unable to grasp the reality of his loss, until he probed into the center of his consciousness and found nothing.

“All those years,” he said softly. “All those years, he gave me his strength.”

He looked up then, and found Mace Windu looking down at him, dark eyes filled with sympathy. “How do I survive without him, Mace?”

But the Councilor had no answers. There were no answers. There never would be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_Swifter far than summer’s flight –_  
_Swifter far than youth’s delight –_  
_Swifter far than happy night,_  
_Art thou come and gone –_  
_As the earth when leaves are dead,_  
_As the night when sleep is sped,_  
_As the heart when joy is fled,_  
_I am left alone, alone._

_\- Remembrance_ \- Percy Bysshe Shelley 

 

Among the little group that made its way through the Temple corridors, Bail Organa brought up the rear, taking care to match his gait to that of the former Supreme Chancellor of the Republic who walked at his side. Ordinarily, the stately pace of their little procession would have been appropriate for his station, for a stroll through the halls of the great Senate; one did not, after all, scurry through the corridors of power. But the junior senator from Alderaan (extremely junior, as he constantly reminded himself, knowing that he had been included in this little menage only because of his long acquaintance with the central figure of this drama, rather than any misconception about the prestige of his position) would not have been averse to a bit more alacrity in their progress. There was a strange ambiance that seemed to permeate the atmosphere around them, something cold and harsh, and totally alien to everything he had ever understood about the Jedi Order, something that seemed to lurk within the hooded eyes of the scant number of Temple residents they encountered. It was too ephemeral to be identified as hostility, but it was definitely a departure from the pleasant serenity that usually permeated this ancient center of Jedi culture.

When young Kenobi had come to him with his odd request, the Senator had paused to consider the possibility that his friend had spent too many years submerged in the melodrama of clandestine operations; he had suspected a growing paranoia, but the many debts he owed to the Jedi in general – and this one Jedi in particular – had left him no option. Whether or not the young knight’s concerns were legitimate or the product of a delusional imagination, made no difference in the end. Obi-Wan had asked, and Bail could not refuse him; had, in fact, never been able to refuse him anything. And wasn’t it fortunate, thought the young Senator, busily maintaining an air of tranquil assurance that he patently did not feel, that Obi-Wan had never once tried to take advantage of that simple fact.

He trained his gaze on the rigidly straight spine of the young knight who walked directly ahead of him and noted all the tell-tale signs that cataloged the horrors of a day only barely begun. Obi-Wan moved with purpose and determination, and nothing short of cataclysmic injury would ever rob him of the natural beauty that he wore like a cloak, but there was little of his customary grace in his carriage. As a teen-aged stripling, barely old enough to qualify as an adolescent, he had inspired one of the most commonly repeated clichés ever to circulate – and recirculate – endlessly, through both the Temple and the Senate, following him relentlessly, much to his chagrin, throughout the term of his apprenticeship and beyond; the verbiage might have varied in some small ways, but the meaning never really changed: Kenobi had the mind of a diplomat, the body of a warrior, the face of an angel, and the strut of a streetwalker. The strut, however, was nowhere in evidence in the brightness of this morning, and the brightness itself seemed tainted somehow, despite the liquid quality of the sun’s brilliance pouring in through huge sweeps of paristeel. It stroked the thick copper-hued braid that coiled around the young knight’s throat, and would have struck jade and emerald sparks from jeweled eyes, if he’d bothered to look up. But he didn’t, his focus firmly fixed on the placement of his feet and the hard glare of russet and terra cotta mosaic paving that seemed to breathe low clouds of muted amber into the glitter of morning.

The fact that the young knight was continuously racked by faint tremors, like delicate foliage caught in a soft night wind, was obvious only to those who stood closest to him, and Bail, exchanging a quick conspiratorial glance with the Chancellor, edged even closer, understanding without being told that the reason for the languor of their pace was due to Obi-Wan’s determination to leave the Temple under his own power. The terrible heaviness in his limbs would not allow him to achieve much speed, but he would not be carried like a casualty as he left the home of the Jedi for the last time. He would not allow those he had counted as friends and colleagues and siblings to see how deeply he was wounded, and neither Bail nor Chancellor Valorum nor the two individuals who moved at the young knight’s side, supporting him by virtue of a discreet application of Force energy, would allow idle spectators to assuage their curiosity by noting the tremor in his spine or the desolation in his eyes.

Noting the hard line of Obi-Wan’s jaw, Bail thought it likely that the knight saw little or nothing of the setting around them, avoiding any impulse to lift his gaze, as if he neither wanted nor needed any final examination of the place that had been the only home he’d ever known, nor any cataloging of the things that made it unique. Then the junior senator allowed himself a tiny rueful smile, to acknowledge his own foolishness. Obi-Wan was a Jedi, and he could undoubtedly walk these corridors blindfolded and drugged and drunk as a Jurredith lord at Keilampoora’s Flesh Festival and still describe every feature in minute detail. It would stay with him, in living color, for the rest of his life, and only the Force knew whether or not that was a good thing.

The males of the group remained mute, each still chewing over the scene they had left behind them; each struggling to reconcile what they had seen and experienced with the image of the Jedi Order which had comprised a huge part of their lives. Even Xanatos, who had long believed himself completely disabused of all the mystical illusions of the knighthood that had governed his childhood years, seemed marginally stunned.

Only Mirilent Soljan appeared immune to the atmosphere of brooding, but Bail thought that probably had more to do with the dynamics of her personality than any genuine resistance to the almost tangible tension that lingered around them. She simply chose to handle the awkwardness by overwhelming it with her customary energy and volume, and she kept up a running commentary throughout the course of their journey, seeming oblivious to the fact that none of her companions were paying much attention.

None - except one – who almost certainly could not have quoted a single word of her monologue, but who nevertheless felt and basked in the sound and cadence of her voice like gentle rays of light streaming into his consciousness, driving away the cold and the creeping dread. Obi-Wan did not speak at all, but the healer occasionally turned to glance up into his face, and words became superfluous beneath the loving warmth reflected in his eyes, eyes that spoke volumes, and she continued her soliloquy, hardly pausing for breath, her strength and pragmatism shielding them all beneath a protective blanket, carrying them safely forward to their destination.

By this hour of the morning, the rays of the rising sun were slanting into the primary docking bay at an oblique angle, striking sparks of gold, platinum, ebony and garnet off the hulls of the craft assembled therein, each tethered to its own custom berth. Each, but one – one which obviously had no place among the pedestrian assortment of run-abouts, atmospheric shuttles, couriers, and diplomatic transports. It sat off-center in the great hangar, obviously never meant to be confined within walls, its lines so pure and vibrant that it seemed to have been captured in mid-flight, in an artist’s rendering of what grace and elegance should be. It did not sit on its landing struts so much as it crouched, like a great cat waiting to spring into motion, or a bird of prey poised for lift off, and the caress of sunlight flowed along its hull, generating prismatic arcs of deep azure, emerald, and amethyst from the storm-colored luminescence of its mirror-like finish.

“Magnificent,” breathed Senator Organa, struck anew with a sense of awe, just as enchanted and overwhelmed as when he had caught his first glimpse of the luxury transport some hours earlier. His eyes swept over the length and breadth of the exquisitely designed vessel, noting and appreciating the perfect balance and obvious attention to detail, right down to the stylistic runes - copies of ancient Parchia’mali glyphs, he believed – etched beneath the scrollwork incorporated into the artistic rendering of the name, along the port bow. He turned to meet the eyes of the Telosian prince, who, even in the grip of extreme anxiety over the condition of his young lover, could not resist a proud glance at the custom-built craft. “And perfectly named,” Bail continued. “A _Jeweled Sea_ , indeed.”

Xanatos smiled, his eyes suddenly soft and thoughtful. “Not bad, for a second choice.”

“Second choice?” echoed the young senator, obviously puzzled.

The smile became a mischievous grin. “He wouldn’t let me name her _Kenobi’s Eyes_.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Captain Bravo Remmisch, taking full advantage of his two-meter stature, looked down on his first mate with a stare so acidic that it was reputedly capable of peeling paint from duranium bulkheads, and the stocky little Sullustan barely managed not to shrink away from its intensity. “But, Captain . . .”

Knight Garen Muln, ensconced at a spare console at the rear of the bridge of the _Jeweled Sea_ almost surrendered to an urge to snicker – almost.

“Did I not make myself clear, Mr. Wické-llumph? Or did you, perhaps, misunderstand Lord Aji’s orders?”

“But it’s the Republic’s traffic command center, Captain, and they’re demanding . . .”

“And this,” snapped the Captain, “ is a vessel of Telosian registry, with, I might add, full diplomatic immunity, currently on a mission classified as Priority One by the individual who just happens to be both the sovereign ruler of our planet, and the owner of this ship. They can demand whatever they like, but if we’re not clearing atmosphere in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to let you explain our failure to Lord Xanatos. Understood?”

The Sullustan swallowed, loudly.

As if on cue, a bright, electronic ping erupted from the ship’s intercom system, followed by a voice that was plummy with icy restraint. “Captain Remmisch,” said the crown prince of Telos, anointed sovereign of the Thanis Confederacy, “I am currently standing before the viewport in my private bathing suite, and I’m looking out at a bastardized Malastairean sloop, which approximates the repulsive color of raw liver, piloted by a grossly hideous gran with a broken eyestalk, and a dug who is drowning in his own drool trying to catch a glimpse of my companion. Now, would you care to explain why these . . . creatures are intruding on my privacy, when all I expect to see outside this port is an uninterrupted starfield?”

Garen Muln was forced to fake a cough, to disguise a chortle, as the Sullustan first mate muttered something inaudible, under his breath, but not, as it turned out, quite inaudible enough. “You are correct, Mr Wické-llumph,” said Xanatos, very softly. “I could, indeed, activate the filters to darken the transparency. I could also nail up sheets of parmia-wood or hang draperies or staple sheets of plastine to the frame. I choose, however, to do none of the above. I choose to be elsewhere. _Now!_ Do I make myself clear?”

Bravo Remmisch said nothing, electing to allow his smile to speak for him, as Cree-Ruv Wické-llumph reached over and switched off the insistent electronic tone of the incoming comm-channel signal, and, with a glance to check the directional settings on the pilot’s console, jammed the atmospheric thruster controls to their maximum stops. Reflexively, Knight Muln braced himself against the rough jerk which should have marked the rapid acceleration; then he allowed himself a rueful smile in realizing that such a superbly engineered luxury vessel would never do anything so pedestrian and unsophisticated as jostle its passengers. 

The Captain maintained his silence, and moved to the rear of the bridge, dark eyes evaluating the amused expression on the young Jedi’s face, as Garen did nothing to conceal the laughter that threatened to engulf him. “Considering that I am recently a member of the gainfully unemployed,” said the Jedi, “I was considering asking Xanatos for a job. But I think I’ve just decided on a major career change.”

Remmisch crossed his arms, and leaned against the sleek console, his leather clothing blending perfectly with the dark elegant décor of the bridge. “You could do worse,” he replied easily. “He’s very generous.”

“And very unforgiving,” observed Garen.

The Captain paused for a moment, before nodding. “Very, but loyal to a fault, and very protective of the things . . . and the people he loves.”

Hearing a strange note in Remmisch’s voice that he could not quite identify, the Jedi focused his gaze on the Captain’s face. “You disapprove of his choices?”

“I disapprove of the risks he takes,” replied the Captain, refusing to be intimidated by the knight’s stern demeanor. “The Jedi have not treated him gently in the past.”

Garen was quiet for a time, apparently considering his response carefully. “You’re Corellian,” he said finally. “Correct?”

“I am, but what . . .”

“Corellians, in general, have not treated me gently, in the past. Yet I find that I have little interest in kicking your ass into next month, although I’m sure I can work up the enthusiasm, if necessary.”

Remmisch stiffened, and his eyes hardened. “You might want to rethink that, Friend. You’re outnumbered, and you don’t even have your little light sword.”

“I’m a Jedi,” said Garen, with easy certainty, pushing away from the console and assuming a relaxed stance. “Nothing changes that, and I don’t need a lightsaber to handle the likes of you.”

There was a single beat of silence, when tension twisted around the bridge like a writhing serpent, before the Captain lifted his hands in a placating gesture, and chuckled softly. “So much for the Jedi reputation for serenity. It seems that Xanatos is not the only man here, intent on taking care of those he loves.”

Garen smiled. “You haven’t met Kenobi, have you?”

“Not really. I’ve seen him a few times, but never actually talked to him. He’s a pretty little thing – I’ll grant you that – and I guess I can understand why you and Lord Xanatos are so besotted that you want to protect him. Tell me, do you share him or do you take turns?”

The Jedi went very still and took a moment to suppress the swell of outrage that erupted within him, before leaning forward to reach up and lay one hand on the Captain’s shoulder. “If I were you, Friend, I’d make certain of my facts, before speaking so boldly. The day Obi-Wan Kenobi needs anybody to protect him is the day the Hutts reform and take up needlepoint, and there’ll be bikini beaches on Hoth. And furthermore, if he doesn’t shut your mouth, permanently, I have an idea that Xanatos might, provided you’re ever foolish enough to express your thoughts to him.” 

He grinned then, and turned to depart. “But,” called Remmisch, obviously confused, “he . . .”

“If I were you,” interrupted Garen, still walking away, “I’d be very careful about repeating your opinions. Right now, he’s wounded, in a way that you can’t possibly understand, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Think carefully, Captain, before you speak, or he might be tempted to use that sharp tongue to cut off your head.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The transition from Coruscanti atmospheric traffic lanes to starscape, as seen through the paristeel port of the _Jeweled Sea_ ’s master bathing spa, happened almost instantaneously, and Obi-Wan Kenobi, despite being almost boneless with exhaustion, managed a soft chuckle. 

“You’re a tyrant,” he observed, barely audible, “and I don’t know why any of them put up with you.”

“Because I pay them an obscene amount of money,” replied Xanatos as he adjusted the temperature of the water flowing into a bathing pool large enough to accommodate a party of wookiees, “and being able to brag about crewing this vessel never fails to impress the ladies.”

The Jedi lay on a plushly padded banquette that bordered the pool, and curled spasmodically around his own center as a bout of violent tremors seized him. “And how many ladies,” he managed to gasp, “have you impressed, your majesty?”

Xanatos moved swiftly to remove the knight’s clothing, careful to maintain a strictly impersonal touch, and deposit him, neck-deep, in the steaming water. “Dozens. Hundreds. Who knows? Who cares?” He stroked his hands through waves of auburn silk, alarmed at the translucence of his lover’s complexion. “They meant nothing.”

Obi-Wan laid back against a contoured cushion, designed to cradle neck and shoulders, and sighed his relief, as the heat of the water – almost too hot to bear – began to work its way into a body that felt shrouded in ice. “You use people, Xan,” said the soft, cultured voice. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

The Telosian’s smile was bittersweet. “I used them, and they used me, Obi. No promises. No commitments. No tomorrows. Just . . . sex. You remember that, don’t you? Just sex.”

The knight sighed, and opened eyes gone cloud gray. “It was never ‘just sex’, Xan. You know that.”

The prince looked away, training his gaze on the glitter of stars as the computer translated actual, hyperspace images into familiar galactic vistas. “Wasn’t it? For you? How could it be anything else?”

“Xan, please,” whispered Obi-Wan. “Please, don’t do this. I can’t . . . I can’t deal with it. Not now.”

Xanatos eyes drifted closed for a moment, before he turned and smiled down on his companion. “I know. And I’m sorry. You need to concentrate on getting stronger. On getting warm.”

Obi-Wan nodded, and fell silent as the warmth and buoyancy of the water soothed the ache in his limbs and torso. “Aren’t you . . .” he turned to observe Xanatos standing some distance away. "You’re not . . . joining me?”

“No. I can’t.”

The Jedi frowned. “I don’t understand. Are you . . .”

“Mira was very specific,” explained the Telosian. “No sex, at all. Not until . . . You’re too vulnerable, Obi. It would be too easy to force the issue.”

Obi-Wan’s smile was gentle. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Abruptly, Xanatos was striding forward, his movements sharp and jerky, without his customary fluid grace. “Wouldn’t I? You can’t possibly be that stupid. You can’t . . .”

“Xan, I . . .”

“Do you know,” said the prince of Telos, in a harsh, guttural tone that was strident with urgency, “how much I love you? Do you know what I’d do, to have you feel the same about me? I’d do _anything_ , Obi-Wan. Whatever it takes, and if that means raping you, while you’re hurt and vulnerable and wounded, I can’t . . .”

He fell silent then, turning once more to gaze out into the stars.

“Go on,” whispered Obi-Wan, still feeling the coldness in his veins. “You can’t what?”

“I can’t be sure I wouldn’t just take you and tear out the remnants of that bond, to replace it with one of my own. I can’t be sure.”

The Jedi didn’t answer for a while, and, when he did, his words were little more than a breath. “But I can.”

Abruptly, Xanatos picked up a decorative vase, overflowing with prambia roses and dark-veined veliaferns, and smashed it against the viewport. “Fuck it all, Obi-Wan,” he cried, “I’m not you. And you can’t make me be like you. I’m not concerned with honor or nobility, and I don’t care about the Jedi or the Light or the Sith – or right and wrong, good and evil, anything . . . except . . .”

“Me,” sighed the Jedi. “You care about me.”

And Xanatos fell to his knees beside the pool and reached out to pull the young knight into his arms, heedless of the damage hot mineral water would do to silk and leather. “Yes. You. I care about you. I think I fell in love with you, the first time I ever saw you.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “I was just a baby.”

Xan nodded. “But you were a beautiful baby, and I spent year after year after year trying to convince myself that it was all just my imagination.”

“Must have worked pretty well, or was that some other crazed psychotic prince of Telos who spent so much time trying to kill me?” The Jedi’s eyes had drifted closed, and his voice was becoming distant and sluggish.

“But I didn’t kill you,” replied Xan, his fingers tracing the lines of the young knight’s face. “Do you really think you’d be alive today, if I’d actually wanted to kill you?”

Abruptly, Obi-Wan’s eyes flew open, and he reached up to trace the thick scars that obscured the side of the Telosian’s throat. “You . . . did you . . .”

“Did I what?” whispered Xan, lost in the depths of jewel-toned eyes.

“You . . . let yourself fall. That day, at the acid pits, you let yourself fall. Didn’t you?”

The Telosian leaned forward and pressed his lips against Obi-Wan’s forehead. “It was my only choice. I couldn’t . . .”

Obi-Wan laid back against the cushion and felt as if everything he had ever known about the universe had suddenly turned topsy-turvy in his mind. “You couldn’t risk . . . killing me.”

Xan huffed a small laugh. “Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? I had an escape hatch, of course – my customary ‘back door’ – but I wasn’t at all sure that it would work. But I looked over and saw that you were perfectly willing to sacrifice yourself, to save Qui-Gon. And I couldn’t allow that. So I took my chance, and it worked. Mostly.”

Those incredible eyes looked up at him again, and Xan felt a blade slice into his heart as he noted tears welling up in their depths. “You never told me before,” murmured Obi-Wan. “You never said it. Why . . .”

“Because I knew you couldn’t,” answered Xanatos. “No matter how much you might want to, your heart was tied to him. I didn’t want to hurt you, or to make you want what we could never have.”

Obi-Wan nodded, and let himself soak up the warmth around him as he considered what he had learned.

When he looked up again, there was new resolve in his eyes. “And now?”

Xan’s smile was gentle. “Now, it’s now or never. As soon as you’re ready, Mira will come and remove the severed ends of the bond.”

“And I may die,” said the young Jedi softly, knowing it to be truth.

“And you may die,” admitted the prince of Telos, ruthlessly squelching the terror the acknowledgement inspired. “Or you may not. But even if you don’t, you may never be able to form a bond again with anyone. I know that.”

“But?”

“But, at least, you’ll know. I couldn’t stand it, if you never knew.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes tightly and drew a deep breath. “I wish . . .” But he could not go on.

“I know,” replied Xan, reaching out once more to draw the young knight into his arms. “I know.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Mirilent Soljan drew a deep bracing breath and reaffirmed her decision to spend the rest of her life here on Arbory 3. She had traveled widely in her many years serving the Jedi Order, had gone where she was needed, to fight disease and pestilence, to aid in the treatment of injuries in scores of natural disasters, to minister to the needs of Jedi Masters and knights and padawans, injured in the line of duty or otherwise. She had inoculated beautiful slender children with huge liquid eyes, against the horrors of Vesqué Fever in the magnificent rain forests of Tynna; fought Drehenam Plague that spread like wildfire in the primitive but glorious mountainous regions of northern Agamar; wrested young knights and padawans from the stubborn grip of death in the badlands of Garqi, following battles in a seemingly endless civil war, while noting, with some remote section of her mind, the exquisite beauty of the setting; and she had journeyed from village to village in the archipelago that swept across the southern quadrant of Alderaan’s tropical seas, evaluating the irreversible damage done to an entire generation of infants by a biologically engineered genetic mutation that had been intended to reverse a decades-long degeneration of mental faculties in the native population. She sighed when she thought of that particular mission, of the empty eyes and blank faces, of the dread and the acceptance of futility in the expression of parents and siblings and extended families, of the wordless, emotionless obedience of the small victims as they were gathered up and transported to facilities scattered across the face of the planet, facilities where they would be monitored and tended, until – inevitably – each of them would lapse into a catatonic state from which there would be no waking.

She remembered the breathtaking loveliness of those islands, with seas of amethyst and turquoise, and beaches of rose-colored sand that waxed gold and coral in the magic of sunrise. She remembered an exquisitely beautiful adolescent padawan who had loved running on that sand, basking in that wonderfully crystalline sunlight until his body was transformed into a sculpture in bronze, and swimming and exploring those waters; who had been welcomed into the camaraderie of the young people of the villages and proceeded to make friends who might have lasted a lifetime, but hadn’t, in the course of things; who had wept uncontrollably when the final inevitable conclusion was reached, when he was made to accept the fact that there was no resolution for the problem, no hope. 

No one lived on those islands any more; the entire culture had been destroyed by an experimental process gone bad, and Obi-Wan had not spoken a single word of what happened there since the day he had piloted the Jedi transport as it lifted off from the center of the last village and streaked up into the oblivion of the stars. Not even Qui-Gon had been able to convince him to seek out a soul healer. He had dealt with his desolation as he had dealt with many things over the years, in the silence of his own heart.

Yes, she remembered Alderaan, and the sense of tranquility that clung to those islands like a blanket of warmth, even after the advent of unremitting tragedy.

But it was nothing like this place – this place where she would happily spend the remainder of her life. Except, of course, that she couldn’t. As a Bimar, she existed with the physiological imperative of living in close proximity with both her mate, and her twin; it was a condition she had never lamented, never resented, never even thought to question. Until now.

She had been here on Arbory, a small m-class planet tucked into the curve of the crescent-shaped Thedri Nebula, almost two full cycles, and she knew she was approaching her limits. Already, she felt the rising compulsion, and knew her time was short. But she could not leave – not yet. 

There was still one task undone, one goal unreached. She would not, could not, leave him as he was.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was now free of the torn bond which had tormented him for almost ten years; that torture was gone. But he was still broken, unhealed, and she would not abandon him now. If necessary, she would ask Varqa to come here, to grant her more time, and he would do it, because he loved her, and because he loved Obi-Wan, but it would be a hardship for him, and she hoped to avoid the necessity.

Today, she thought. Today.

The stage was set; the trap, baited. All he had to do was allow himself to be caught.

She looked around, making sure nothing had been forgotten and allowed herself a small self-congratulatory smile.

The cottage, provided for their use by the family of Finis Valorum, was perfect. She had converted it into a combination residence and clinic when she had arrived here, after being summoned, through a circuitous process, by Xanatos Aji. On the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than a family dwelling, two-storied, with broad porches and mullioned windows, perched at the edge of a broad bend in a river that meandered through several miles of hill country and meadowland before connecting to a crystal pure, ice-flecked sea, teeming with life. The rear porch, where she sat now, actually extended out over the water, and the rustic appearance of the structure gave no indication that it was supported by a series of repulsor-lifts which would, if necessary, lift it out of reach of raging floodwaters. But there was no need for that today. Today was perfect.

It was deep winter in the planet’s northern hemisphere – real winter, the kind that no longer happened on Coruscant – unless the weather control system shorted out, which happened rarely, or decided, on a fluke, to allow a short-lived cold snap that might entail a few snowflakes, which happened even more rarely. None of the weather programmers or the powers that be who controlled them had much of a taste for winter, it seemed. Mira thought that was rather a shame, and, judging by his behavior over the last week, Obi-Wan surely agreed.

All around the house, and out over the water, a deep stillness had fallen, in concert with the onset of steady snowfall, which had quickly iced the tips of evergreens and the bare bone-like limbs of the stand of deciduous trees that crowded the river’s edge. The sky was thick with pearl gray clouds that showed no sign of moving on, and Mira felt sure the snow would continue through the night, transforming the landscape into a fantasy of drifts and ice sculpture with the coming of morning. They would be cut off, which suited her perfectly. 

A faint tinkling sound drew her attention to the small garden area off to the left of the porch, and she was prompted to hold her breath as she glimpsed the phenomenon known locally as ice fyries – a swarm of cold-weather insects with segmented bodies encased in chitinous carapaces, who only emerged from their subterranean nests when the temperature dropped below freezing and flurries of snow filled the air. The sound they produced – the whirring of wings that should have been too fragile to support such sturdy bodies, but somehow weren’t – was almost musical, like crystal chimes, and they generated a pulsing radiance, amber and lavender and jade and bright rose that was endlessly reflected in the prisms of the ice that attracted their attention.

It was a spectacularly lovely sight, and Mira smiled, hoping that they would linger and continue their exploration of the garden until Obi arrived.

Which, she hoped, would be shortly. The setting was perfect; it needed only its star players.

She had arranged two of the sprawling loungers side by side, positioned them at the edge of the porch to allow an unobstructed view of the river, added a drift of plush, velvety pillows, and covered the entire arrangement with soft, downy, hand-made quilts, creating a nest of colorful warmth and comfort that was almost decadent. Nearby, a small table held a carafe of steaming jaffa, and another of spiced hot caroballe, topped with snowy drifts of whipped cream, along with a small tray of porcelain mugs, their dark crimson finish incredibly bright against the rapidly developing white-out. The table also offered a tall, decorative tankard, redolent of mulled wine and a tiered tray of a local confection known as prakava, dark and chewy and studded with nuts, a delicacy for which Obi-Wan had developed a particular fondness.

Mira settled herself within the comforting warmth of the lounge, and luxuriated for a moment in the sheer physical pleasure it afforded. She watched the snowfall, sipped her mug of jaffa, and wondered where he was, although there was little doubt.

She had come when summoned, and performed the ritual he had requested; she had excised the remnants of the bond out of his mind and his soul and his Force connection, knowing that he could no longer survive if she refused to do so, but knowing, also, that he would endure unbelievable agony in the process. Performing the ceremony had drained her to a dangerously low level of Life force and drained him even further, and neither of them had been sure, at the end, that they would survive the ordeal.

For days, the uncertainty had continued, but, finally, she had recovered enough to oversee his battle to take back his life, to take over his care from the staff provided by Chancellor Valorum and to nurse him through the night sweats and the bouts of torment and ease him through the nightmares. And he had endured, as he must, but she knew it was not enough.

They had both lived, but Mira was too much a realist to believe that they had accomplished their final goal. Obi-Wan was alive and free from the torment of the severed bond, but he was still incomplete. He was still not the young man she had known and loved for all his life. He walked and talked; he even laughed on occasion. But he was empty; it was in his eyes and in his heart. The pain was relieved, but the silence was swallowing him whole. 

So he walked – miles and miles, every day – and tried to reach out to touch the Living Force; tried to recapture his connection to the warm, loving presence that had cradled him all his life, even during the worst of his dark times. But it remained silent, unresponsive; he could sense it, he assured her, when she asked, but it was remote and uninterested.

He was isolated and weary, and, most of all, he felt abandoned. He walked everywhere, in the hills, along the river, across the meadowlands and up into the mountains, searching for an answer that eluded him. And his body grew leaner and tougher, hardened, as he pushed himself, but his eyes were hollow, and he was always cold.

She had done everything she knew how to do, and realized that it would not be enough. There were only two alternatives left to her, and one of them she would resist until no other choice remained.

It was time to activate Plan B and pray for a little help from the pantheon of deities in whom she had never totally believed, but she felt no aversion to hedging her bets.

He would be home soon; the increasing cold would drive him in. Though he shared her love of winter, his body could no longer adjust to frigid temperatures.

She sipped her jaffa, and considered allowing herself a brief nap, before rejecting the notion. Time was short, and there was still that one final alternative that she had not allowed herself to explore fully in the hope that it would never be necessary.

But it might, and the thought triggered a memory that she found surprisingly painful.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_She had never felt sorry for Qui-Gon Jinn before that day, and it had surprised her that she was capable of experiencing any nuance of sympathy for the man who had been the target of her anger and resentment more times than she could begin to count._

_But she had never seen him as she saw him that day; he had never before come to her as a supplicant._

_“You’re going to Obi-Wan,” he’d said, without preamble, without any hint of accusation in his voice. “I know the cover story, that Chancellor Valorum’s daughter fell ill and requires the services of the Temple’s best healer, but that’s just a story. Isn’t it?”_

_“Master Jinn,” she’d replied, coldly, “where I go – and why – is actually none of your business. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m running late and . . .”_

_“Please, Mira,” he’d said then, and there had been no mistaking the desolation in his tone. “Please. Don’t do this. Don’t take him away. I can’t . . . I need him, Mira. And he needs me, too. Don’t break this bond. I’m begging you.”_

_She had studied his face then, examining the torment he was enduring. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”_

_“You have no idea,” he’d replied._

_Sudden tears had welled in her eyes. “Oh, but I do. I know exactly how it feels, because I saw what it did to him. What he endured, because you and your precious Council buddies decided that his suffering was the vital ingredient in the success of your little plot. Sweet Force, Qui-Gon, did you ever once think of what you did to him? Did any of you ever consider the pain you inflicted? This wasn’t just expediency; it wasn’t the means that justified the ends. This was Darkness, and all of you participated. All of you – even Saint Yoda-of-the-Twisted-Syntax. And now, when the damage is done, you want me to deliver him into your hands because you need him. Forgive me for being so blunt, Jedi Master, but, in the vernacular of the younger generation, I don’t give a flying fuck what you need.”_

_“I didn’t know,” he’d cried, flinching away from her anger._

_“You didn’t want to know,” she’d retorted. “Just like the Council didn’t want to know. So they and you could climb into your beds at night and tell yourselves that your consciences were clean and sleep the sleep of innocence. So you could believe that you had no choice.”_

_He’d straightened then, and she’d seen a flash of the arrogance that had become so common among members of the Order in recent years. “I’ll go to the Council. They’ll forbid you to . . .”_

_“Go and be damned,” she’d retorted, without hesitation. “I’ll resign from the Order. I’m a healer, Qui-Gon, first and foremost. And I’ll do what I must. Those words should, at least, mean something to you. You said them to him often enough.”_

_And the defiance had drained out of him then, leaving him slumped and shaken. “I loved him, Mira. I just never knew how to let him know it. I never knew it would hurt so much, that the Force wouldn’t be enough, to take away the pain.”_

_The words were barely audible, and she’d felt the weight of his sorrow settle around her. But she couldn’t allow it to matter; her priorities were already fixed._

_“It’s almost beyond belief,,” she’d said finally, “but I find that I can feel sorry for you. It’s obvious that you didn’t know the value of what you had, until it was gone.”_

_“He still loves me,” he’d insisted then, holding on to a small spark of determination._

_“Yes,” she’d agreed, “I’m sure you’re right. But I’m not going to let him die for it.”_

_He’d looked at her then, and the naked pleading in his eyes had been so intense that she had barely been able to meet his gaze. “Help me,” he’d whispered. “Please, help me. I don’t think I can live without. . .”_

_“Yes, you can,” she’d answered firmly, refusing to be swayed. “He did, and you can too. We all accumulate debts over the course of our lives, Master Jinn. It’s your time to pay up.”_

_She’d walked away then, holding her head up and refusing to look back. Not even when she detected the soft sound of hopeless weeping._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

She sighed and snuggled deeper into the drift of downy coverlets. Qui-Gon Jinn constituted the final alternative – the one that she could barely stand to contemplate. If all else failed, the Jedi Master could reform the soulbond and reclaim the young man who had saved his life all those years ago. And Obi-Wan would live; that much was certain. But he would no longer be Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi knight and independent adult. He would be the shadow, the plaything of Master Jinn.

Mira wasn’t certain, but she was fairly sure she’d rather see him dead, and she was convinced that he would feel the same.

She sipped her jaffa and heard the sound of footsteps in the entryway and took a moment to repeat the little litany taught to her by Chancellor Valorum’s granddaughter, beseeching divine intervention, justice, and mercy.

Curtain time.

She could feel his gentle nudge through the Force as he sought her out and the warmth of his amusement as he realized where she was.

“What’s all this?” he asked, as he strolled out into the growing dimness of the porch. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s freezing out here.”

“Not in my little nest,” she replied, lifting up one side of the stack of quilts. “Come on in. It’s good for the soul.”

He moved to stand beside her, his eyes taking in all the preparations, and he looked down at her with an affectionate smile. “You’re a closet sensualist,” he observed.

“Humph. Nothing closet about it,” she retorted. “This is sheer heaven.”

She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, and some small segment of her mind remarked that he was still incredibly beautiful, but not very Jedi in appearance any more. He wore the faded garments he had unearthed in a bureau in the room he used as a sleeping chamber – work pants worn to a downy softness, topped by a thick, fleecy sweatshirt of indeterminate color, and a jacket of well-worn suede, a washed-out pearl gray that served to emphasize the jeweled tones of his eyes.

He moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of caroballe, before taking a piece of candy to nibble as he gazed out into the swirl of snowfall and turned to watch the acrobatic patterns flown by the ice fyries. “Beautiful,” he breathed.

“Yes, now get in here where it’s warm, before you pass out from hypothermia.”

He appeared to be considering an argument, but, in the end, he did as she asked, pausing only to remove the jacket and the heavy hiking boots that he favored for his explorations. There was more than enough room in the little cocoon to allow them to avoid touching each other, but that was not his way. He settled himself next to her, before laying his head against her shoulder.

“How was your day?” she asked, enjoying the familiarity of their little domestic ritual.

“Lovely,” he answered, avoiding any mention of the problems that continued to plague his soul and his spirit – as always. “I found an old shrine up in the hills. Very old. Prehistoric, maybe. It was full of ghosts, I think.”

“Ghosts?” She sipped her jaffa, and tried not to frown. 

He smiled, hearing the concern in her tone. “Just traces of old Force signatures. I think. I tried to explore them, but couldn’t get much. Just old and sad.”

She said nothing, and his smile broadened. “You think I’m projecting,” he said softly.

“Don’t tell me what I think,” she retorted, not bothering to ease the sharpness of her tone, knowing that all he wanted from her – all he’d ever wanted from her – was honesty.

He nestled into the pillows before turning to study her face. “You’re pale, you know,” he observed, after several moments of silence. “When are you going?”

“Who says I’m going?”

“If necessary,” he replied, “I do. I’m not going to let you make yourself ill on my behalf.”

“Obi, I won’t . . .”

“I’ll survive, Mira,” he interrupted. “I’ve lived with it for all these years. This is just a different form of the same thing. I’ll survive.”

She looked up at him then and allowed all her fears to flare in her face. “You’re not surviving, Love. You’re slipping further and further into depression, and solitude, and withdrawing from life. You’re not surviving.”

He looked away then, unwilling to meet her eyes. “I guess that depends on your definition of survival. Doesn’t it?”

“I won’t let you go, my Obi,” she said abruptly, fiercely. “I won’t . . .”

“I’m tired,” he said suddenly. “I just want to rest a while. OK?”

“Briathell chowder for dinner,” she said softly, suppressing an urge to reach out and smooth the lines from a face far too young to wear them, “and cherobb meringues. Your favorite.”

His smile was gentle, but distant. “My compliments to the chef.”

Ignoring the slight remoteness of his tone, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him back down to cradle his head on her shoulder. “Be at ease, Love,” she whispered. “All is well.”

She blinked away the tears that rose in her eyes as he allowed himself to be held, allowing her to feel his trust in her, a trust she devoutly hoped she was not preparing to betray.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The twilight had thickened, and the whiteness of the world surrounding the lovely little cottage had intensified, wrapping the entire setting in heavy, thick layers of swaddling. Soon, the isolation would be complete.

Mirilent knew she had to hurry, knew her time was running out, as she eased out of the warm little cocoon she had created, and padded into the house, to greet the individual who stood waiting at the front entry, trying, without notable success, to achieve some measure of serenity.

When she opened the door, he met her gaze squarely, but she could detect the underlying uncertainty that eroded his confidence. She gestured for him to enter, as she retrieved her own cold weather gear from the coat stand by the door.

“Mira,” he said softly, “I don’t think I can do this.”

She paused to peer into his eyes, but only for a moment. “Then you condemn him,” she answered sternly. 

“You’re asking me to violate him,” came the response, heavy with distaste.

The pause this time was longer, as pure rage flared in her eyes. “Now you listen to me, Prince Xanatos,” she almost snarled, “I’m asking no such thing. I’m telling you that you – and only you – have the power to save him. To give him back his life. Or is something like that beneath your dignity? He’s just a common Jedi, after all. Hardly worthy of your . . .”

“Stop it,” he snapped. “You know better than that. He’s . . . he’s everything to me. But I will not rape him. Do you understand that?”

To his surprise, she reached up and gently brushed flakes of snow from a sweep of night dark hair.. “I know. But you must convince him, Xan. Otherwise, we’ll lose him. Erasing the broken bond ended the agony he endured all those years, but he’s lost his way. He can’t adjust to being alone again, within himself. If it goes on much longer, he won’t survive it.”

“He’s not ready,” he answered, taking a deep breath.

“No,” she agreed, “he’s not. But we’re running out of time. Soon, he’ll be too far gone for you to reach him. If that happens, only one person would be able to pull him back. And you know as well as I do what that would mean. Is that what you want for him? To spend the rest of his life locked away in some dark compartment of his own mind, a slave, a thing to be used for someone else’s pleasure?”

Xanatos shook his head, bleak horror in his eyes. “I’d never allow that. I’d kill him myself, rather than let that happen.”

She nodded, swallowing hard around the lump in her throat. “Then go save his life, Xan. I’ve done everything I know how to do. Now it’s up to you.”

He shuddered slightly, before squaring his shoulders and attempting a tremulous smile. “I’ll try.”

She made a sour face, and glowered at him. “Surely, you’re not going to make me say it.”

The smile firmed up. “Okay. I won’t try. I’ll do.”

She nodded, wrapping a thick scarf around her throat. “I’ll be back in the morning. And, Xan?”

“Yes?” His tone was absent, as he had already begun to move away, his focus on the task before him, and a part of his mind was laughing hysterically at the idea of classifying what he must do as a ‘task’, but he paused to hear her out.

“He used to sing in the mornings,” she said softly. “Limericks, love songs, bawdy drinking songs – sometimes the entire score of the latest musical comedy to catch his fancy. Always very loud, sometimes in tune; sometimes not. It drove Qui-Gon nearly out of his mind.” She sighed, and tried to blink away the moisture in her eyes. “He hasn’t sung – not once – since I came here, and I want to hear him sing again.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Xanatos Aji, crown prince of Telos, sovereign ruler of the Thanis Confederacy, guardian of the Sacred Sceptre of Armré Lia, Sentinel of the Sanctuary of Emmelithe, and holder of a bevy of other royal titles, stood looking down at the face that haunted his dreams every single night; a face that, when analyzed feature by feature, might have seemed quite ordinary, but somehow managed to become more than the sum of its parts. The face of a commoner, although noble-born; the face of a Jedi knight, who cared nothing for the trappings of monarchy or royal succession, the face of the man he loved beyond all reason, the man for whom he would have given up his throne, his wealth, and his life, if necessary.

He quickly discarded jacket, cap, gloves, and boots of dark, supple leather, and knelt beside the cozy nest that the healer had prepared, letting his fingers glide through the tumble of soft, coppery curls that spread across the silken surface of the stack of pillows; Obi-Wan had taken to wearing his hair loose and unconfined down his back, only rarely taming it into the familiar braid, and Xan thought it suited him, though it made him look younger than his thirty-four years. But his face didn’t look younger now, marred, even in the depths of slumber, by vertical creases on his brow and frown lines at the corners of his mouth. 

He had learned to frown early in his life, at the hands of the man to whom he had granted his complete loyalty and obedience. But he had also learned laughter, and the prince knew with absolute certainty that the sound of Obi-Wan’s laughter would live in his memory until he drew his last breath; it was almost his favorite of all sounds, second only to the deep, purring moan that invariably erupted from his lover’s throat at the moment of orgasm.

The twilight had deepened to a layer of rose-blushed lavender as he allowed his eyes to catalog the features that he loved so well; the elegance of the bone structure, the symmetry of the sculpted nose, the perfect arch of brows and the sweep of thick, spiky lashes, the full, eminently kissable lips, and the perfect cleft of the strong chin. Force, how he loved that cleft! Almost as much as he loved the eyes, closed now, but bright and jewel-toned in his memory. He smiled as he extended a fingertip to trace the line of the bottom lip, and reflected, as he often did, on the uniqueness of those incredible eyes – eyes unlike those of anyone else. Eyes that defied description.

Eyes that flickered open, and looked up at him in the soft disorientation of sleep interrupted.

“Xan?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Watching you sleep.”

The full lips curled into a small smile, as he nestled deeper into his comfortable cocoon. “Nothing better to do?”

The prince leaned forward and captured that incredibly tempting lower lip between pearly teeth. “There _is_ nothing better,” he managed to murmur, before claiming the entire mouth, with lips that demanded and received entry for the questing tongue.

But it was not going to be that easy, and he knew it at once, when Obi-Wan pulled free with a small gasp. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Xanatos straightened and crawled up on the edge of the lounge, his eyes dark with passion. “If I have to explain it, I must not be doing it right.”

“That’s not what I mean,” replied the young Jedi, “and you know it.”

The Telosian sighed. “Yeah, I do. But I also know something else, something that you know as well as I do, but haven’t been willing to explore.” He closed his eyes for a moment, in preparation, knowing what he had to do, but knowing also that it would be terribly difficult, maybe even impossible. “It’s time, my Obi. No more avoiding it. It’s time.”

Obi-Wan had pushed himself up to a semi-crouch, while wriggling to the furthest edge of the lounge, as far away from the touch of his former lover as he could get, and wrapped himself in layers of blankets, eliminating any possibility of skin meeting skin. “I won’t allow this, Xan,” he said, his voice steadier than he’d expected it to be. “I won’t let you do this.”

Moving with a grace that was almost fluid, and refusing to hurry through the task, Xanatos stood and began to disrobe. The bitter cold of the air around him would have been more than adequate cause for hurrying the process, but he continued to move in a leisurely manner, and Obi-Wan, eyes riveted in spite of his protestations, noted that the frigid temperature was doing some extraordinarily interesting things to his companion’s exquisite body.

The young knight wanted to say more, to put a stop to the Telosian’s actions, but he suddenly found his throat dry and thick with words he could not speak. How could he have forgotten, he wondered. How could he have let himself forget? Xanatos was the epitome of exotic male beauty, the perfection of his features somehow emphasized by the acid scarring that covered the area below his left ear, and Obi-Wan knew immediately that he hadn’t really forgotten; he had simply refused to remember.

Taller by several inches than he himself would ever be, and broader across the chest and shoulders, but without an ounce of excess flesh. All sculpted muscle and sinew, almost hairless, tapering to a narrow waist, and continuing down to the exquisite form of long, corded thighs and calves. And, as perfect as those parts of his form were, they paled in comparison to the other remarkably tempting features of his body – the flat belly bisected by a line of fine, dark hair that plunged into the mass of ebony curls at the base of an impressive penis, long and thick even when not in a state of arousal, crowned with a head that would flush to a dark, almost angry crimson when engorged with blood and curled up against his abdomen. It was not, of course, engorged now; the cold made certain of that, but Obi-Wan remembered how quickly it would fill and how it would weep pearly drops of pre-cum that would rival the finest wines in taste. 

He tried to look away, to see no more, but he was frozen in time and place, helpless to avoid seeing it all, his breath coming harsh and thick through open lips. Beneath that proud symbol of manhood, the scrotum hung full and textured like fine velvet, inviting the exploration of a hungry mouth. And beyond that, the perfect curves of what Xan frequently referred to as ‘the royal ass’, silken to the touch, delicately contoured and perfectly balanced around that most intimate entrance to the body, marred only by one tiny discoloration, just above the junction of buttock to thigh – a birthmark, crescent-shaped and claret-colored. Force, how he loved that little flaw, that only served to emphasize the perfection of the flesh that bore it.

And, it was all, of course, covered with the milky, almost luminous skin characteristic of the Telosian species, satin-textured, that tempted lips and hands to explore, and to mark, just as the thick mane of heavy, black hair, falling almost to the waist, begged to be caressed and nuzzled and stroked; just as the sculpted face demanded the touch of lips and hands, and the eyes – the color of a glacial sea – invited one to plunge into their crystal depths, and never again recall or seek the light of day.

Obi-Wan drew a ragged breath, as he noted that the cold had caused Xan’s nipples – mocha pink against the creamy backdrop of his skin – to pebble, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with the recollection of their taste, the salty male flavor that was so uniquely Xanatos and so addictive.

“See something you like?” teased Xan, finally tossing the last of his garments – as always, he wore no underwear – aside and crawling into the cozy warmth of the cocoon.

“You know I do,” whispered Obi-Wan, suppressing the moan that rose in his throat. “You . . . take my breath away. But I won’t let you do this, Xan. I won’t. No matter how much I might want it. I won’t take what you’re offering.”

For a moment, everything around them seemed to slip into some kind of dimensional shift, as if time had suddenly halted its inexorable march forward. The silence was intense, and Obi-Wan felt alarm stir within him as he correctly identified the emotion rising in Xan’s cobalt eyes. The prince of Telos was, suddenly, stone-cold furious and looking for a target.

“I can’t believe this shit,” he said sharply. “It’s inconceivable to me that I could have fallen in love, totally, irrevocably, completely in love, with such a stupid fucker.”

Jewel-toned eyes suddenly widened, and flashed platinum with resentment. “Now wait a minute. I . . .”

“You think,” Xan continued, ignoring Obi-Wan’s attempt to speak, “that this is all about you. You think that this is a pity fuck. Force, Obi-Wan! I thought you knew me better than that. Do you really think I’d do that – that I’d fuck you because I feel sorry for you? What – you think I want to bond with you because I’ve suddenly developed a conscience, or gone all noble . . . all fucking Jedi on you?”

But Obi-Wan, as weakened as he was in his current state, was not going to be browbeaten into going along with the plans hatched up by his former lover and the Bimar healer who had set up this very cozy, very convenient little love nest. “I know you love me, Xan,” he said, forcing himself to speak calmly, to swallow the resentment that flared within him. “You feel . . . obligated. But you’re not. You didn’t do this to me, and I’m not going to let you tie yourself to . . .”

“To what?” demanded the Telosian, allowing his outrage free rein. “To what?” 

“To what I am,” answered the Jedi finally, barely audible. “To what I’ve become.”

“Which is what, exactly?” The tone had softened not at all; if anything, it had grown harsher. “Tell me what you think you’ve become.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and turned his face into the quilts that covered him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Uh, huh,” retorted Xanatos, obviously undeterred. “It doesn’t matter? OK, then you just shut the fuck up, while I tell you what you think you’ve become. You think you’ve become a liability – a loser. A cripple. Care to dispute that? No? I didn’t think so. But you want to know what I think? I think that I’d give my good right arm, to get my hands on the Master fucker that truly did this to you.”

“Stop!” said Obi-Wan. “Just . . . stop!”

And Xanatos did stop then, fear rolling over him with the force of a tidal wave. He was silent for several moments, before speaking again, in a very soft voice. “Oh, Force, Obi-Wan, please tell me I’m wrong. Please tell me you don’t still . . .”

Obi-Wan did not move, did not turn to face him, but the prince could not fail to note the tremor in the voice. “Do you want me to lie to you, Xan?”

And the cold of the air around them was suddenly only a pale reflection of the cold that gripped the heart of the prince of Telos. “You still love him. By the goddess, you still love him.”

“Yes.”

Some separate, objective part of Xanatos’ mind noted that it should be impossible for such a simple word to generate so much agony. He drew a deep ragged breath, before speaking again. “If you say the word, Obi, I’m gone. As much as I hate it, as much as I’d give my life to prevent it, if you really want to go back . . .”

“No!” The denial was firm, unequivocal. “No, I won’t go crawling back to them – to him. I can’t do anything about my feelings for him, but I won’t become his possession, his fuck toy. I just have to learn how . . . to survive. To cope. To live out my life as one of those needy pathetic lifeforms that I used to hold in so much contempt.”

And the anger flared again, but this time, it was different. This time, it was filled with determination, with purpose. Without apology or hesitation, Xanatos reached out and yanked Obi-Wan from the shelter of the nest of blankets in which he had buried himself, and wrapped him in an embrace from which he could not escape, without accessing the Force to do so. And accessing the Force was exactly the action the Telosian hoped to inspire.

“Let me go,” snarled the Jedi, struggling to free himself.

“No,” replied the prince calmly. “I have no intention of letting you go, and you are going to listen to me, even if I have to tie you down and gag you to force the issue.”

“Xan, I’m not kidding. Let me . . .”

“Listen, you obnoxious little bastard, you're going to hear me. You owe me that.”

Obi-Wan went still, pain rising in his eyes. “I didn’t know you were keeping score.”

Xanatos had the grace to flush, but he remained firm in his determination. “Call it whatever you like, but this is important. I need to say it, and you need to hear it.”

He watched the expression on his former lover’s face and could have wept when he identified the weary resignation that settled in those incredible eyes. “Go ahead then,” said Obi-Wan, with a heavy vein of something that might have been petulance had he been anything other than Jedi. And Xan suddenly had to suppress a smile in the realization that being Jedi made no difference at all sometimes. Petulance, indeed. “Say your piece.”

Deliberately, Xanatos turned his gaze out into the blurred reality of the falling snow, taking a moment to compose his thoughts before beginning to speak. “You tell me that you know I love you, but you make it sound like some kind of intellectual exercise – a dry fact that has no subtext, no deeper meaning. But you don’t really know, Obi-Wan. You don’t know what I feel, or what I need, or why I would ask you to do this thing. Because you’ve never known what it is to be loved; you’ve only known what it is to be governed and manipulated, to hunger for being needed, and desired. By the gods, Love! You see yourself as needy and pathetic, when the truth is that you’re the strongest, the brightest, the least pathetic man I’ve ever known. If there’s anyone here who's needy and pathetic, it’s not you. It’s me. I look at you, and I know the emptiness you feel, the loneliness, the terrible aching need.”

He turned then, and stroked the line of Obi-Wan’s jaw with gentle fingers. “I know, because it’s a part of me too. You think I want to bond with you, for your sake? Sweet goddess, Obi; I want to bond with you because, without you, I’m only half a man. I can’t bear to think about spending months and years and decades in the emptiness of knowing what we could have shared. I don’t know how to live without you. I don’t want to do this for you, Obi-Wan, and I don’t want you to do it for me. I want to do it – for us.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes had remained closed as Xan spoke, his forehead creased with lines of tension, and he remained motionless, almost breathless, for several minutes after the prince fell silent.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally. “I don’t know why you would feel like that. I don’t . . .”

“No,” replied Xan with a sigh, “you don’t. You’ve never understood it. Obi, you can’t imagine how many people would have fallen at your feet, if you’d only shown some sign of interest. You’re like sunlight, like youth and laughter; like rain in a desert; people are drawn to you, and most of them only want to do whatever it takes to make you happy. And you go strolling through life, without even realizing it. Did you know, for example, that Bail Organa would have sold his soul for you? Or that there are dozens of Republic senators and Jedi knights – even some Jedi Masters – who would have given you the universe, if you’d asked for it. The sad fact is that you wound up in the clutches of one of the few individuals in the galaxy who didn’t have sense enough to recognize what a precious gift you were. Do you have any idea what I would do, just to be able to spend the rest of my life at your side? Even if I was never allowed to touch you again, I’d give up my throne.” His lips twisted into a tiny little scapegrace smile. “I’d even give up my money.”

Irrepressibly, Obi-Wan grinned, relaxing slightly within the circle of Xan’s arms. “Now _that’_ s some serious sacrificing.” 

“Indeed,” agreed the Telosian, before turning serious again. “I don’t ask you to take me at my word. You know that nothing can remain hidden within the Force. I want to make love to you, Obi-Wan, to love you completely, mind and body, and to let the Force judge the suitability of any bond that might form between us. If it’s meant to be, it will happen.”

“And if it’s not?”

“I won’t believe that, not until I have no other options.” Xanatos pressed his face into the softness of Obi-Wan’s hair. “I believe that this thing is stronger than both of us. It’s even given me the strength to let go of my desire for revenge, for your sake. I’ll never be able to forgive Jinn for what he did to me, or – more importantly – for what he did to you, but I know that any action I might take to harm him, would also harm you. And that I could never do. I love you that much.”

The scent of the Jedi’s skin was suddenly impossible to resist, and he nestled against the young man’s throat. “I believe that you were meant to be mine, Obi-Wan. Every day, every night, every hour, I close my eyes and I can almost feel your body against me. I hunger for you constantly, to taste you, to devour you, to possess you, to claim you as my own, and to have you claim me. I’ve never begged anyone for anything. Not once, in my entire life. But, if I must, I’ll beg you for this, to take this chance with me.” 

Obi-Wan turned then, and jeweled eyes met arctic blue. “Xan, if it doesn’t work, do you understand the risk? There are no guarantees; we’re dealing with a power that no one really understands or controls. It could kill us both – or worse.”

“I know the dangers. But the chance to spend one day with you – one hour – is worth any risk. You’re the breath of my life; the rhythm of my heart, but for it to work, we must surrender to each other completely. Can you do that?”

“Help me?” It was barely a whisper.

Xanatos smiled.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The kiss that marked the beginning of what Xanatos had already labeled ‘the most important seduction of my life’ was neither hungry nor passionate, but achingly gentle, as the Telosian positioned himself to gaze down into the face of the man he loved. He leaned forward and, light as breath, stroked his lips across those of his lover, once, twice, and settling slightly the third time, to feel Obi-Wan’s mouth relax under his own, like flower petals opening beneath the sun. Then he drew back slightly, to press little, nibbling kisses across his lover’s jaw, and down into the hollow of his throat, working his way finally to the deep cleft of the chin, roughened with a day’s growth of ginger stubble.

“Gods, I love this dimple,” he breathed, before beginning a thorough examination with just the tip of his tongue, pausing to look up and lose himself in the depths of eyes gone aquamarine, in the first rush of passion. Obi-Wan’s breath had begun to quicken, and his lashes fluttered gently against the skin of Xanatos’ cheekbones. “Open to me, Obi. Let me in.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “Slowly, Xan. Too fast, and it’ll be . . . overwhelming.” Nuzzling his face into the silken drift of his lover’s hair, he closed his eyes, and reached for his center, which he had been unable to grasp in recent days, but now it came easily, as if it had been waiting for the right moment. And maybe it had. Maybe Xan was right. Maybe this was meant to be. He quickly sifted through the various threads of energy and time and circumstance that comprised his consciousness, seeking the primal filament of his own connection to the Force. He had tried to isolate it several times since Mira had removed all traces of the soulbond, but it had been elusive, granting him no more than fleeting glimpses of its distinctive bright azure glow as it coiled in upon itself, avoiding his grasp. 

But now, like the tranquil center of his consciousness, it was there – not flickering as it had appeared when he had last sought it out, but burning steadily and flowing toward him smoothly when he reached out through the Force. He felt the caress of its warmth as it accepted his touch, and he knew a moment of fear as he realized that, if their efforts were successful, this basic component of his life, this link that bound him to the vast beauty of the Force, would be forever changed, encompassing both more and less than all that had comprised his existence. But he drew a deep breath, and put aside his fears. The Force would not harm him and would not harm the man who was risking so much, simply to make him whole again. He had to believe that.

With a deep sigh, he began to dismantle his shielding, as he opened his eyes and lifted his lips to those awaiting the invitation.

Xan groaned, deep in his chest, and took what was offered, his tongue probing deep and delighting in the taste of his lover as it exploded in his mouth, the flavor of Obi-Wan Kenobi, like spiced cream, but not quite, containing something more, something that defied classification, something that was uniquely Obi-Wan, and the Telosian knew that he would gladly spend the rest of his life subsisting on nothing but that taste. He explored palate and gums and teeth and tongue, and then opened himself to the same type of exploration as Obi-Wan surged upward, claiming his own right to sip and sample and savor.

Around them, the cold intensified as the snowfall thickened, but there was only fire and life between them as Xanatos, by now in the grip of growing desperation, wrapped his fist in the worn fleece shirt that had ridden up to bare Obi-Wan’s midriff, and, with a guttural growl, ripped it free and tossed it away.

“Hey!” Obi-Wan protested, as he tongued the delicate whorls of his lover’s ear, “that was my favorite tunic, made me look dashing.”

Xan was working his way down the sculpted chest, nibbling and licking and savoring. “You’d look dashing,” he replied, as he reached the rosy contours of a pebbled nipple, “in a tuber bag and a smile.” More nibbles, more kisses. “On second thought, forget the tuber bag.” He wrapped his fingers around the underside of Obi-Wan’s biceps and pushed up, so he could trail his hands down his lover’s side, caressing underarms and rib cage, luxuriating in the satin texture of creamy skin, as he sucked sharply, creating a love bite to darken the lovely aureole surrounding the nipple. 

“Gods, Obi-Wan,” he groaned, as something very like a purr erupted from the younger man’s throat, “how could you even think of denying this? So beautiful, and so made for this. For me. Your body is just . . .” hands gripped the waistband of faded workpants, and, with little more than a whisper of resistance, they followed the shirt out into the growing darkness. "It’s like somebody created you for me. Just for me. You feed my hunger; you quench my thirst.” 

He surged upward to reclaim lips now swollen and reddened from rough kisses. “Open to me.”

“Ye-e-e-s,” sighed Obi-Wan, eyes heavy with lust, as he adjusted his body, welcoming the silky hardness that settled against his groin, as he opened his legs to allow Xan to press against him. “Sweet Force, Xan,” he murmured, grinding himself against that pulsing manhood, “ I swear you were a whore in a previous life.”

Xan stole another kiss, before sliding down his lover’s body, mapping it with hands and mouth as he went, paying extraordinary attention to nipples and navel, before slowly moving lower, trailing fingers finally down inner thighs, and positioning Obi-Wan’s knees up and out with heels pressed against buttocks, leaving him splayed and squirming with need.

And within his consciousness, the spiral of light that comprised his life writhed as well – reaching, needing, hungry.

As Xanatos shifted to kneel between Obi-Wan’s feet, the young knight realized his intention and voiced his objection. “Xan, wait!” he cried. “Let me . . .”

“Later!” The response was almost a growl, followed by a feral grin. “The night is barely begun, Love, and you’ll have plenty of chances to return the favor. Sometime tonight, I’m hoping you’ll fuck me till my brains are leaking out my ears, but now, this is for you. This is to tell you how much I love you, how much I want you. This is to blow _your_ ears out.”

And he buried his face in Obi-Wan’s groin, intent on savoring the feast laid out before him and debating on where to begin. Ah, yes, the testacles – plump and lovely and inviting exploration. First the tongue, to taste and sample the texture, as his lover whispered something incoherent, which might have had something to do with being driven insane, then went rigid as the warmth of that talented Telosian mouth engulfed the entire scrotal sac, alternately sucking and humming, hard enough to skirt the edge of pain, but never crossing that line, carefully avoiding any rhythmic pattern, to prevent any nuance of complacency. Meanwhile, his hands were not idle, nudging his lover’s legs wider, before sliding down to cup the sensual swell of buttocks as thumbs stroked the ultra-sensitive perineum.

Completely at the mercy of his tormentor, Obi-Wan writhed, torn between the urge to push up into that dark warmth or down against those tantalizing hands. 

When Xan released the balls from his mouth, he did so through pursed lips, causing them to pop free, and eliciting a guttural groan from Obi-Wan. 

“Talk to me, Baby,” demanded the prince, as he slid his tongue up the considerable length of the thick, pulsating phallus that was now begging for his touch. “Tell me what you want, what you’re feeling.”

“Can’t,” panted Obi-Wan, trembling with need. “Don’t remember how!”

The Telosian laughed softly, and his lover hissed at the sensation of soft puffs of breath caressing the length of his cock. With a soft growl, Xanatos began an exploration of the delightful juncture of groin and thigh as his hands kneaded the silken flesh of the ass he personally adjudged to be the galaxy’s most perfect, and he lost himself for a while in the luxury of the sensation. Until his lover suddenly – unexpectedly – sat up, buried his hands in the prince’s hair, and tugged his head up to demand a kiss that was almost brutal in its intensity, before making a simple demand.

“Enough foreplay. Suck me now!" 

Xanatos was instantly reminded of an intimate conversation they had shared early in their relationship, a conversation in which Obi-Wan had confessed that his love affair with his Master had always cast him in the role of the submissive – a role, he’d discovered later in life, that was not natural to him.

“For a natural bottom,” said the Prince, with an audible smack of his lips, “you sure are bossy.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to dispute the ‘natural bottom’ comment, but succeeded only in running through a litany of curses – in five different languages – as Xan swallowed him to the root, and restarted the process of driving him out of his mind.

For a moment there was only the slide of tongue and teeth and lips from tip to base; then the suction began, again alternating with soft humming, and a tongue that explored every inch of the silk-over-steel shaft, and paused periodically to sip at the drops of bittersweet fluid that formed in the slit. Special attention was also paid to the underside of the head, a sweet spot that was particularly vulnerable to the slow drag of teeth and the friction of chin stubble.

For a few moments, Obi-Wan was able to resist the urge to thrust upwards into that delectable mouth, but only for a few moments. With a moan emitted through clenched teeth, he finally gave up the struggle and lost himself in the effort to bury his cock in the incredible sweetness of the throat that contracted and pulsed around him.

It was at that moment, when control had been almost entirely lost, that Xan eased off a bit, suckling gently, in order to reach out with a tendril of Force energy, to retrieve a small tube from the pocket of his discarded jacket. He tried to suppress the aching need that was driving him to completion, but it was almost beyond his ability. He had been too-long-starved for the feast laid out before him. Still, he would cause his lover no pain; of that, he was certain. He took a deep, ragged breath, and concentrated on keeping his touch tender. Too easily, this could devolve into common rutting, but he would not allow that to happen. This was not simple fucking; this was making love, to the man who was the center of his universe.

With hands that he could not quite steady, he squeezed out generous dollops of lube and focused once more on the task of ravishing the luscious body in his arms.

“Let me in, Obi,” he whispered. “Open for me.”

And, with a complete disregard for his own primal fears, he dropped the shields that he had erected around his heart when he was still a boy, at the same moment when he enveloped Obi-Wan’s phallus completely, sucking hard, and placed his palms against the tender swell of buttocks as he sank both thumbs, slick with scented oil, into the puckered opening of his lover’s body. Within that dark, silken passage, he quickly found the small nub he was seeking, and proceeded to massage it constantly, sending bolts of sheer ecstasy through Obi-Wan’s body.

Instantly, the Jedi jerked upwards to meet the sweet rapture of warm lips, and back, to intensify the incredible erotic shocks that exploded through him like the eruption of a star caught in the rising flares of a supernova. Simultaneously, he felt the collapse of his own shielding, and was immediately lost in the sensations that flooded his lover’s senses, as the two of them surrendered to the power of the Force, as it pulled each of them into the other’s awareness, and bound them together with tendrils of pure energy. There was pain, but there was also a great surge of joy, such as neither had ever known before.

“Xan, I can’t . . . I’m coming . . . I’m falling.”

 _“Then fall for me, my love.”_ It was wordless, unspoken, but absolutely clear. _“I’ll catch you.”_

It was also superfluous, as Obi-Wan, at that moment, really had no choice, as he felt the liquid heat build at the center of his being, and explode in a burst of fiery pleasure that flared out to consume everything around him, sending hot blood boiling through loins and belly, and melting the pathways to the brain in the incredible heat of the outburst. It was as if he fell from a great height, into a molten river of physical rapture that seemed to go on and on, as Xan continued to suckle, draining him of every drop of orgasm; yet even as he felt his erection begin to flag, those talented, tormenting fingers continued their assault on his sanity and his prostate, and he felt blood surge once more into his cock.

“You’re definitely,” he gasped, “trying to kill me.”

Releasing the reawakening cock – with some reluctance – Xanatos crawled with sinuous grace back up to come face to face with his lover, and Obi-Wan was overwhelmed to taste himself on his lover’s tongue. “Tell me what you want,” whispered Xan. “Anything – anything you want – is yours. For the rest of our lives. Tell me what . . .”

“I’m on fire for you,” interrupted the Jedi. “I burn for you. Fuck me, Xan. That’s all I want. You inside me; that’s all.”

Xanatos smiled, and let the depth of his love shine through his eyes. “You want me to put out your fire, my love?”

Obi-Wan shifted, lifting his lips to be reclaimed. “Yes.”

Quick as a serpent, the Telosian reached out and scooped a double handful of snow from the porch railing, and slathered it around the resurgent erection of his lover, while he simultaneously positioned the head of his cock against the still relaxed opening to Obi-Wan’s most intimate passage and pushed, sliding completely inside, until he felt his testicles snugged against his lover’s ass.

The young Jedi howled, with combined laughter and arousal, and felt renewed bolts of pleasure as he was filled with the massive cock of his Telosian lover. 

“Bastard!” he snapped, intrigued now by the combination of melting snow, and the heated friction of the hand that worked him so skillfully, and the hot, steely shaft that was buried within him. 

Xan laughed, and began to stroke into the phenomenal velvety softness of Obi-Wan’s body. “Gods, you’re tight,” he moaned, as he focused on their joining, while his hand continued to stroke his lover’s cock. “Look at me, Obi. I want to see your eyes, when I come inside you. I want to see your face, when you become mine forever.”

"Yes!” cried Obi-Wan, wrapping his hands around Xan’s legs to brace himself, to gain leverage to surge forward to meet the thrusts that continually impaled him. “Harder, Xan. Fuck me harder.”

And the Telosian prince was glad to comply, releasing all restraint and pounding into the depths of Obi-Wan’s body, adjusting his angle to stroke the prostate with every withdrawal, setting off a new burst of fireworks in his lover’s consciousness.

“Say it!” demanded Xan. “I want to hear it, while I’m buried inside you. While I’m fucking your brains out. While there’s no room inside you for anything, for anyone but me. Say it, Obi! Say it for me.”

The young knight pushed himself forward once more, to take his lover’s cock as deeply as possible, and arched his back, as he once more fell into the abyss of joy, barely conscious and cried out as he fell.

“I love you, Xan. Sweet Force, I love you.”

The prince of Telos would later realize that this would be the defining moment of his life – the pinnacle of pure bliss – and he would never forget the beautiful vision that was Obi-Wan’s face as he surrendered to the power that swept them both toward the dawn of a new existence, a new tomorrow.

Xanatos willingly, eagerly followed, his release pulsing deep into the body that he would worship for the rest of his life.

The lovers slipped from post-coital bliss into a deep, dreamless sleep which was not quite as natural as it might have seemed, for the Force had not quite completed its work. They drifted in non-awareness, deeper than slumber, tangled in each other’s arms, bodies still joined, as a blister of pure radiance formed around them, sealing them inside a web of energy that grew steadily denser and more complex, strands interweaving with other strands, pulling energy from both young bodies, and reshaping it, before channeling it back into them, the same – but different at the same time. 

Periodically during the night, the lovers would waken, and renew their exploration of each other’s bodies, each penetrating and being penetrated several times, their movements sweet, almost placid – slow, beautiful lovemaking – except for the one time when Prince Xanatos, in a burst of sheer exuberance, launched himself into a gymnastic exercise involving the porch railing, columns, and various structural items throughout the garden, convincing Obi-Wan to join him in a wild mating that found the prince balanced on the railing, straddling an upright post, wearing boots and cap and nothing in between, and the Jedi pounding into him until, in Xan’s vernacular, he was convinced that his brains were leaking out his ears. To their mutual amazement, the heat they generated in their lovemaking was enough to hold off the damage that should have been inflicted by the extreme cold.

But, after each bout of sexual exertion, they fell back into their unnatural slumber, and the Force continued its task, creating what would endure throughout their lives and even beyond. 

Around them, the snowfall continued and the winter closed in, but the darkness was not without relief. Creatures of the night and of the winter crept from their burrows and nests, drawn by the natural energy that enclosed the two, and, with a simple acceptance that would have been impossible in most sentient species, breathed and savored the sweet fragrance of fulfillment, as strands of brilliant azure Force energy mingled and twined with those of deep crimson to form an entirely new ribbon of light. And a new glow of deep violet stained the night with its brilliance, before fading into the silence of ultimate peace.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Mira Soljan admitted – grudgingly – that, while she loved the winter, she was not overly fond of digging through snowbanks, even though she was not, technically, actually doing the digging. That, after all, was the purpose of domestic droids, was it not? Still, her fingers and toes had much in common with cubes of ice by the time she reached the steps of the dwelling she shared with Obi-Wan, and she was eager to get inside and prop herself before the archaic, but charming, fireplace that graced the front parlor, and had provided so many pleasant hours for both the two Jedi refugees.

She pushed open the front door and paused to listen and was not pleased to be greeted with complete silence.

If her plan had been successful, surely he would not be out prowling the landscape today. Surely he wouldn’t . . .

Would he?

She allowed herself a gusty sigh, admitting that this whole thing – soul bonds in all their complexity – was completely unknown territory, and she didn’t really have a clue what he might or might not do, or even if there had ever been any real hope for a new bond to form. This had been a desperate measure, a final throw of the dice. If it had failed . . . she sighed again. She still didn’t want to think about that.

But, successful or not, she knew there was nothing more that she could do. It was time to go home. Time to . . .

She hesitated as she realized that the house was not, after all, entirely silent. There was a sound, a susurration, a faint roar, as of . . .

Water pouring from a showerhead.

She turned to look up the stairs, realizing that it was a silly thing to do, as the ‘freshers were located at the rear of the loft area, and there would be nothing to see. But still . . .

Behind her, the door remained ajar, as the domestic droid proceeded to begin the task of clearing snow from the porch, and the chill of the draft prompted her to turn to close it, until she heard a deep baritone voice lifted in a parody of melody.

_“In natural guise, a baritone is he  
But when I polish up his knob so perfectly,”_

Quick bright laughter interrupted the lyrics, but the singer, it seemed, would not be silenced.

_“The commander of me arse can hit high ‘C’_  
_And he’s pledged that my reward shall be,_  
_For me able-bodied talents, an admiralty.”_

Mira smiled, but there was little joy in it. Xanatos, it seemed, was as fond of musical comedy as Obi-Wan, if less musically gifted. The play was called _The Commodore’s Mate_ , as she recalled, and had been a huge success in the Coruscanti theater district some years earlier, and Xan did, at least, sound relaxed and enthusiastic. So maybe the night had not been a total waste of time, if the two of them were . . .

And then she heard it – the soaring of the bright, pure tenor, frequently accented with riffs of laughter.

_“Goes arse over elbows and yells, “Let ‘er rip!”_  
_Gives a whole different meaning to “Go down with the ship.”_

Heedless of the cold air pouring through the door behind her, she felt the blood drain from her face and she settled unsteadily to her knees, knowing immediately that her arthritic joints would trouble her later if she lingered there. But she couldn’t seem to find the will to move or to care. She could only listen.

_“And me whole career hangin’ on the turn of a screw_  
_As the commodore’s flagpole sat up, straight and true,”_  
_While I waggled me arse to enhance the rear view.”_

She couldn’t even manage to wipe away the tears that welled in her eyes; she could barely draw breath, for suddenly, gloriously, nothing else mattered.

Obi-Wan was singing.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

_They are not long, the days of wine and roses:_  
_Out of a misty dream_  
_Our path emerges for a while, then closes_  
_Within a dream._

_\- Vitae Summa Brevis_ \- Ernest Dowson  
-  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Nine years later . . . . .

 

They had taken extraordinary measures to dampen his ability to sense his surroundings. The hood that covered his head was tight-woven, close-fitting and secured snugly around his throat, effectively cutting off all light and all but the sharpest of sounds and odors. His hands had been secured in soft bulky mitts that were attached to the cuffs of his tunic, and his rough cloak had been draped to cover him head to toe, completing his isolation from the environment into which he had been led. He had been guided – firmly but without unnecessary roughness – down the ramp of the starship and into the waiting vehicle, a hovercraft by the feel of it, which seemed to be completely enclosed, further cutting off any physical sensation.

And yet, in the final analysis, their time and efforts were wasted. Despite all that had happened over the past months, despite the physical and spiritual trauma he had endured, he remained a Jedi Master, and nothing – short of the diabolical Force-suppressing devices so beloved of the enemy – would have been enough to block him completely from the sweet, intoxicating nectar that the Force poured into his consciousness.

Weeks and months – sweet goddess, could it now be years? - of running, of hiding in the most desolate, barren, Force-forsaken backwaters, of existing within double and triple shielding so powerful it was impervious to even the most elementary nuances of the great energy field that surrounded all living things, of threading filaments of hyper-awareness through miniscule barrier seams, to become vigilance personified, of enduring the darkness, of living with gnawing hunger and raw thirst, of seeking shelter from the harshness of the elements and, too often, finding none, of adopting furtiveness and stealth as a way of life and giving up every shred of memory of hope or comfort, of enduring a caustic existence that sandblasted away all meaning and purpose save one: the pitiless, unrelenting demands of duty. Having existed through all of that and emerged scarred and bruised and battered, but still, somehow, unbroken, he was amazed at how easily his Force presence wormed its way through the physical barriers that separated him from the bright energy currents eddying and swirling within the essence of this vibrant environment and submerged him into its fullness. It was incredibly painful, and it was paradise regained.

Life. Here was life, as he had not felt it, tasted it, touched it, since the first step of the incredible journey on which he had been dispatched, a journey which had led him from one pestilential hellhole to another – and another - across the farthest reaches of the galaxy, striving constantly for that which was most alien and most remote from all he had known. He inhaled deeply and ignored the faint scent of sweat that permeated the hood that covered his face, as he was almost overwhelmed with the fragrances of verdant growth erupting under the caress of sunlight, of youth nurtured and protected and cherished, of laughter unrestrained and unapologetic, and sweet sadness, soft as spring rain and natural as the rhythm of the heart. There was still . . . something – something he could not quite define – a layer of distortion that prevented him from reaping the full effect of Force awareness, but it was delicate and ephemeral, like a veil of mist, and he was able, for the most part, to ignore its subtle influence.

He considered asking his escort to stop for a moment and allow him to exit the vehicle, just to stand and absorb the sensations of being connected once more to that which he had been forced to deny himself for so long. But Captain Remmisch, for all his immaculate courtesy, had exhibited not a single spark of personal warmth, either during their initial meeting, pre-arranged through a series of heavily encrypted holo-com messages, nor during the ten days of their space journey, and it was obvious that his demeanor was a product of his professionalism; nothing more. Any request to deviate from the necessity of the mission would almost certainly be met with an icily polite demurral.

And, ultimately, it wouldn’t matter anyway. The end of the journey was at hand, for good or naught, and there was nothing further to do but confront the consequences of that long string of yesterdays. He might die today; he had accepted that possibility, finding the prospect much less frightening than he might have expected, but, if this were to be the final destination of his last journey, he was determined that he would relish that one ultimate moment, even to the point of demanding the right to die with his senses fully extended, unencumbered by the dark cloak of obscurity he had donned all those long months ago.

He was not particularly sanguine about his chances for survival, for he knew who ultimately held the key to his fate.

Qui-Gon Jinn took a deep breath, as the transport slowed to make the final turn into the compound where his host awaited, and no power in the universe could have dimmed that remarkable Force presence, still unmistakable, even after all these years – blindingly bright, but rimmed still in darkness.

And then, of course, there was that other presence, pure and golden and untarnished by time or circumstance, but that was a product of pure light that the Jedi knew he had no right to approach or contemplate.

It would be Xanatos, prince of Telos and still – through some inexplicable twist of fate – sovereign of the Thanis Confederacy, who would decide the destiny of one who might well be the last of the Jedi, and the precious cargo he had dragged with him in a meandering, exhausting relay race across the galaxy. Qui-Gon had composed himself sufficiently to come to terms with that prospect, while refusing to allow himself to hope that Obi-Wan, fundamental nobility of spirit notwithstanding, would feel compelled to intervene on his behalf. In point of fact, the reverse was certainly more likely. Obi-Wan Kenobi had absolutely no motivation to look upon his former Master, or the entire Jedi Order for that matter, with anything but disdain and contempt. 

Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh, as he was wont to do whenever thoughts of his lost padawan surfaced, which happened often. More and more often, of late, when he could hardly bear to dwell on reflections of what his last apprentice had become, the one for whom he had given up everything. The one for whom he had torn the heart from the padawan that he should have cherished above all others. Obi-Wan would forever live in his heart as the padawan he had lost, unlike the other, who was the padawan who never should have been.

Anakin, who lived no more. Anakin, who existed now only in the black and twisted soul of Vader, the Sith lord. Anakin – the destroyer.

As had become his habit, he reached deep within himself to retrieve the image of Obi-Wan, luminous with hope and beauty, even as he staggered under the horrible burdens inflicted on him by those to whom he had pledged his heart; the image helped to dispel the horrible sickening visions of Anakin’s traitorous actions – the annihilation of the Temple, the slaughter of the Jedi, the destruction of the Republic, and the murder of the lovely little queen who had surrendered her life in silence, her secret unrevealed - the very same secret she had entrusted to a Jedi Master, who had pledged his life and his honor to its preservation.

And Xanatos – himself a lord of darkness – would now gather all the reins of time and probability into hands that had little cause to deal gently with Jedi concerns or, even worse, Jedi prophecies.

A prophecy, after all, had been used – and it still pained the Master to be forced to accept that phrasing – to excuse the near lethal damage done to the man that Xanatos had come to adore and treasure above all things, to such a degree that their love for each other had become the stuff of galactic legend.

Qui-Gon felt the weight of his years and the scars of his history settle over him, as hope faltered. His death, he reflected, held little meaning for him now; his dreams had all turned to ashes too long ago for him to even remember them clearly. Still, he had one thing left to do, one thing at which he could not fail, even if success required that he humble himself, abase himself and beg the indulgence of the young man who awaited his arrival with scantly concealed hostility.

The vehicle settled to a stop, and Captain Remmisch urged the Jedi Master to his feet with a perfunctory nudge. “It’s time, Jedi,” he announced coldly. “Lord Xanatos is waiting.”

Despite the constraints of the heavy hood, Qui-Gon could still speak clearly enough to make himself understood. “I thank you for your civility, Captain.”

Remmisch replied with a faint snort. “You needn’t thank me for anything. You’re here – safe and sound – because Lord Xanatos wants you here. Had it been up to me, you’d be drifting in deep space with my blade buried in your belly. What you did, to him and his, deserves nothing better.”

“And yet,” replied Qui-Gon calmly, “I’m here at his invitation. Do you know why?”

One needed no Force senses to identify the annoyance radiating from the ship commander. “He’s not in the habit of explaining himself to me, Jedi, but I will tell you this much. You have hurt him and the one he holds above all others, for the last time. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do,” answered the Jedi, with a sigh. “And rest assured, Captain. I have no such intentions.”

Remmisch cleared his throat as he stepped down out of the vehicle. “Nevertheless,” he said quietly, as he steadied Qui-Gon by grasping the Master’s arm with a firm hand, “you’ve been warned. It’s remarkable how often the Jedi seem to act with only the noblest of motives, and still manage to destroy everyone foolish enough to step into their path.”

The Corellian captain pushed the Jedi in the right direction before falling into step behind him, and allowing himself to relax his guard for just a moment, to enjoy the beauty and vibrancy of the Arboryan morning. Thus he did not hear the Master’s whispered response.

“Yes. Remarkable, indeed.”

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

Time had been kind to Xanatos Aji, thought the Jedi Master. The Telosian prince had aged very little in the years since he had escorted a battered and grieving young knight out of the Jedi Temple. He still sported the same impressive physique – broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, finely muscled, with slender hips and long, shapely legs emphasized by the black leather he had always favored; the same face, saved from prettiness by the squareness of the jaw and the strong bone structure and the thick arch of dark brows - and the old scars, of course, which somehow served only to emphasize the perfect symmetry of everything else; the same eyes, thickly fringed and as blue – and cold – as a polar sea; the same silken fall of hair, except for a thick streak of bright platinum that flared from his left temple; and, most of all, the same air of command – of one accustomed to being obeyed and not accustomed to being questioned.

Yet, thought Qui-Gon as he stood tall and serene under Xan’s scrutiny, grateful to have been allowed to strip away the hood and cape, something was different. Something . . . but he couldn’t quite define it.

For a time, the two old adversaries simply observed each other in silence, both enjoying the ambiance of the elegant office in which they stood, with its shelves of leather-bound books and warm patinas of hand-rubbed woodwork, until Qui-Gon decided that it was time to put an end to any silly status games. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the protocols of your court, Lord Xanatos,” he said with a slight bow. “Is it required that I kneel before you?”

To his surprise, the prince’s response was a hoot of laughter. “My ‘court’, as you call it,” replied the Telosian, “has become something of a movable feast, of necessity. I continue to exist and maintain my titles by carefully avoiding attracting the interest of the empire. But, at any rate, this is not my court.” He leaned back in the massive chair that was in perfect scale to the desk that stretched out before him and smiled, and Qui-Gon felt something strange and wonderful – a remnant of an almost forgotten yesterday - flare within him. “This,” continued the Prince, with a gesture which encompassed the setting around them, “is Obi-Wan’s domain. If there is kneeling to be done, you will do it to him.”

Qui-Gon nodded. “Fair enough. Now, may I know . . . where we are? I haven’t . . .”

“Not so fast,” replied Xan. “For the time being, you know all you need to know.”

“You don’t trust me,” said the Jedi Master, with a small smile.

Xan’s reply was swift and frigid. “If it were only my life at risk, Qui-Gon, I wouldn’t bother to keep the knowledge from you. But then again, if it were only my life, you probably wouldn’t be here, for I wouldn’t have extended the invitation in the first place.”

Something warm and comforting touched the Master’s heart. “So he is the one who sent for me.”

But Xan was shaking his head. “He doesn’t even know you’re here. I decided to spare him the pain of having to make the decision.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Qui-Gon, obviously puzzled. “Why would it hurt him?

“Because he would believe it would hurt me, to bring you here.” He leaned back and propped booted feet on a tooled leather blotter, as he clasped his hands under his chin. “He is always very careful not to hurt me. But I’m sure you already know that; he offered up his life often enough to keep from hurting _you_ , didn’t he?”

The Jedi nodded. “Yes. He did.”

“A generosity that you repaid with treachery. Is that a fair assessment, Master Jinn?” There was no smile to accompany those words, and no forgiveness either.

“It is,” agreed Qui-Gon easily, and allowed himself a small measure of satisfaction when he noted the prince’s reaction. “It surprises you that I don’t dispute your contention?”

Xanatos turned to gaze out through the tall windows that flanked his desk, and the early morning light bathed his face with a faint luminescence. “What surprises me,” he answered, “is that you’re willing to concede that you – and the Jedi – were wrong. That you made a huge, monumentally stupid decision, and that Obi-Wan was right.” He swung back to stare up into Qui-Gon’s face. “Have you admitted that to yourself?”

The Master sighed, and gestured toward one of the two leather armchairs that faced the desk. “May I?”

“Answer my question,” came the testy response, followed by a gentler tone. “And yes, you may. Forgive my boorish manners. It isn’t every day that a man confronts the individual who destroyed his life and that of so many others.”

Qui-Gon sat gratefully, wondering for a moment if he would ever manage to dispel the weariness that clung to him so constantly now. Then he took a moment to compose his reply. “There is little to dispute, Xan. We made a horrible error in judgment, and we have all suffered for it. The Jedi . . . are virtually extinct now, and there are many who would claim that we brought it upon ourselves.” He sighed, before looking up to meet the cold gaze of the Telosian. “And I’m willing to accept the weight of that responsibility. But there were many innocents who suffered as well - initiates, padawans, young knights, healers – none of whom had any share in the decision to . . .” He paused then, unable to say more.

“To train the fabled Chosen One,” said Xan, leaning forward, “and, in the process, to stain the Jedi Order with dishonor and shame. You were arrogant, Qui-Gon. You and the Council. Seeing only what you wanted to see, and sacrificing everything to promote your own beliefs.”

“Yes.” It was barely audible, and the Jedi found that he could no longer meet the eyes of his inquisitor.

“Tell me, Master Jinn,” drawled the prince, in a tone that made it clear that he was not yet quite done with inserting the needles of vengeance, “when did you realize that Vader was Anakin?”

Qui-Gon stiffened, his eyes wide and bruised with shadows. “How did you know?” he whispered. “No one knows . . .”

“Obi-Wan does,” replied the prince quietly. “He knew, from the beginning. And what he intuited, my sources confirmed.” His smile was slightly venal. “I may have gone underground, so to speak, but I am not without resources, and my intelligence network is as good as any in the galaxy. I could even provide you with all the gory details – medical and technological – of the transformation, if you like.”

“No,” the Jedi said quickly. “That won’t be necessary.”

Xan grinned. “Can’t say I blame you. It’s not a pretty story.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes for a moment, trying to suppress the upsurge of sorrow that swelled within him – the sorrow that would forever taint all memories of the young boy he had found on Tatooine all those years ago. With an effort that was almost visible, he shook off that debilitating sense of ennui, and asked the question that he had wanted to ask from the beginning. “How is he?”

And there was absolutely no way of mistaking the bright glow of love and pride that flared in the eyes of the prince of Telos. “He’s perfect – brilliant, and . . .”

“And?” prompted Qui-Gon, suddenly breathless.

“He's everything.” And there was no further need to elaborate, as the Jedi understood the multitudes of meaning behind that one word.

“And happy?” The Master needed to hear it, to know it, to have it confirmed.

Xan’s eyes were awash with a tangible tenderness. “I’ll let you decide that for yourself. But first, we have business to attend. I assume your . . . cargo is still aboard ship.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Captain Remmisch, speaking up for the first time, from his position near the doorway. “Under the supervision of two droids that he brought with him. And the crew, of course.”

Xanatos smiled. “You’re remarkably trusting, Master Jinn, considering the potential value of your goods.”

The Jedi nodded. “I had little choice in the matter.” He hesitated then, as if considering how much truth he should reveal, before concluding that there was no more time for subterfuge. “I’ve run out of options, Xan, and I must believe, no matter what your feelings for me might be, that you wouldn’t sacrifice innocence to even an old score, and that Obi-Wan wouldn’t permit it, no matter how much he might hate me.”

Xan’s smile faltered slightly. “After all this time,” he mused, “you still don’t know him. He doesn’t hate you, Qui-Gon. I don’t think he ever did or ever could.”

The Jedi drew a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders to face his old adversary directly. “Very well then. I’ve come here to make a formal request for sanctuary, Lord Xanatos. For myself, if possible, but, if not, for those entrusted to my care. My fate is no longer important, but theirs . . . there is no way to estimate their potential to effect the course of the future.”

Xanatos rose then, and walked to the window, to stare out at the beauty of the landscape laid out before him. It had changed little in the years since he had come here, at the behest of a tiny, tyrannical Jedi healer, to claim the young man who would become the other half of his soul, except that it had grown more lovely with each passing season. It had been a gift to them, on the occasion of their bonding, from Finis Valorum, and it had quickly become home to them, as no other place had ever been.

“You’ve still got bantha balls, Jinn. I’ll give you that. You tossed my Obi-Wan away like yesterday’s garbage, not unlike the way you discarded me, and now, you come here to present the children of Anakin Skywalker, and ask us to take on the task of keeping them safe. I hardly know what to say.”

Qui-Gon drew a deep breath. “Whether or not I deserve your contempt, I find I’m just not up for debate with you, Xan. I’m tired, and I admit to having no place else to go. I’ve exhausted my resources, and find that my abilities are no longer sufficient to assure their safety. So stop playing your stupid little game and say what you have to say. Yes, they are the children of Anakin Skywalker. Yes, the Force is incredibly strong in them, but they are also the children of Padmé Naberrie; she of the great heart and noble spirit. She who died rather than reveal the secret of their existence. So we have come to the moment of truth; will you turn them away, and abandon them to the inevitable fall into their father’s hands, or will you not?”

After a beat of silence, thick with angry words unspoken and resentment that would never be totally resolved, Xanatos returned to his chair and relaxed into it, as his lips curled with amusement. “By the gods, Jinn, you’ve still got it. I never met anybody with a greater command of the language or a more persuasive tongue. So let me be honest with you. Whether you realize it or not, I’m not the same man I once was. I’ve changed, and since it wasn’t particularly voluntary, I deserve very little credit for it. The simple truth is that Obi-Wan lives in the Light, almost exclusively, and, if I wanted to be with him – and I did want to be with him, more than anything I ever wanted in my life – I had to step out of the darkness. Or, to be completely honest about it, I had to allow him to drag me out of it.” The prince of Telos, notorious galaxy-wide for his glib tongue, paused to consider how to best express his thoughts. “Until he transformed my life, I was like a riptide in a river, plunging blindly forward, caring for nothing but the end of the ride, the final goal, which was, of course, simply more – of everything. He pulled me out of that turmoil and forced me to be still – to feel the sunlight and taste the sweetness and listen to the music along the way. It was . . . a revelation. But don’t misunderstand me; I’m still Xanatos Aji, and I still cling to my favorite shadows; they suit me, and Obi-Wan accepts me as I am. But he’s the voice of my conscience, my guide through the night, and I know that he wouldn’t turn you away, regardless of his personal feelings. The children of Skywalker are welcome here. As to whether or not _you_ are welcome, that will be Obi-Wan’s decision, but we won’t betray you to the Empire. If he decides that you may not stay here, we’ll send you on your way, with our best wishes and sufficient resources to find some other refuge.”

“And who will care for them,” Qui-Gon asked, regaining some measure of his Masterful demeanor, “if I’m sent away? They are only five years old, and . . .”

Xanatos reached forward and touched a pad on a control panel set into the hand-polished querral wood of his desk and smiled as the Jedi trembled and gasped for breath as a raging flood of sensations closed on him, following the dissolution of the virtually undetectable shield which had enclosed him since the moment the _Jeweled Sea_ had first breached the atmosphere of the planet. So subtle and refined was the field – and so insidious at its inception - that he had been uncertain that it actually existed at all, suspecting that its effects might well have been nothing more than consequences of his exhaustion, and he shuddered to realize what a potent weapon it would be in the hands of the Empire.

That was his initial reaction, sending a shockwave through his system, as he understood that the feelings he had been savoring since his arrival on this planet were only the palest reflection of the actual sensual ambiance of a world teeming with life and vibrancy. His second reaction was much more profound, sending him crashing to his knees. The sensations came pouring in, an overwhelming awareness of minds and spirits, akin but different – reticent, but reaching out – or, in some cases, not. There was no individual recognition, no resurgence of previously existing bonds, but there was the unmistakable sense of Force connections, dimmed and constricted, but real, nonetheless.

“What . . . who . . .”

The prince of Telos grinned, and took a moment to retrieve a tabaccré cylinder from a humidor and light it with a jeweled lighter. He inhaled deeply, savoring the bitter taste, before blowing out a stream of thick, fragrant smoke. “It’s good to know you can still be stricken speechless, Master.”

“How . . . how many, and who . . .”

Xan sobered quickly. “You’ll find out, in time . . . if you stay here. For now, suffice to say that they found us. Not the other way around. They all found their way, to him. A few at a time.”

Qui-Gon’s face reflected stunned disbelief and a glimmer of hope. “You’ve provided a new home for . . .”

“No.” The denial was swift and sharp. “We’ve offered shelter to those who needed it, but understand one thing for certain, Jinn. This is no new Temple, no Jedi refuge, no training center to promote a rebirth of the Order. The Jedi no longer exist. Except, of course, for you” - he smiled then, with smug certainty - “and one other. But he, at least, has no need for our assistance. This place is simply a settlement for immigrants, who happen to share certain skills, the exercise of which is greatly discouraged. That’s all.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes briefly, to savor the sweetness of the familiar emotions that surrounded him and opened them to find himself the object of severe scrutiny from a pair of huge, beautiful, liquid eyes – the color of molten turquoise – set in an elfin face of exquisite loveliness and delicacy.

The face-off was brief, as Xanatos laughed, tossed his tabaccré stick into a disposal unit, and moved forward to scoop up the tiny child who wore that incredible face. “It’s rude to stare, my poppet.”

The little girl – probably no older than four, but possessing an astonishing degree of assurance and an innate elegance at odds with the scruffy playsuit she wore – tossed her head to clear her face of a mane of ebony curls and favored the prince with a smile that the Jedi was sure would break many hearts in her lifetime. “But, Papa, he’s so . . . big, and . . . and he . . . glows.”

Xanatos sighed softly. ‘That he does, Love, but it’s still rude to stare, and princesses are never rude, are they?”

“No, Papa.”

The Telosian set her down then, and turned her to face the object of her interest. “Master Qui-Gon Jinn, may I present our daughter, Her Highness, Ciara Marique Crystella Kenobi-Aji, crown princess and heir apparent to the throne of Telos.” 

Without hesitation, Qui-Gon bowed deeply, before straightening up to study a face so exquisite it was almost luminous. “I am deeply honored, Milady.”

The child giggled, bringing smiles to the faces of all the men in the room, before turning back to face her father. “I’m supposed to tell you that the flipcakes are almost ready.”

“Aha!” replied Xanatos. “And that is a treat not to be missed. Right?”

“Right, and Dad says they’re only good when they’re hot, so hurry.”

Xanatos dropped a kiss on her forehead, and turned her toward the door, giving her a little push. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

“Better hurry,” she replied, walking away, before turning once more to stare at the Jedi Master. “Something happened,” she said softly, “just now. Something that . . . Dad stopped breathing. He just stopped.”

“Go on, Poppet,” said Xan softly. “All is well, and you may tell your Dad I’m on my way.”

Qui-Gon came to his feet quickly. “Does he know; does he sense that I’m here?”

Xan thought for a moment before answering. “He knows someone is here, but I doubt he’s yet realized that it’s you. He’s been shielded against you – specifically – for a long time. But I’m sure you knew that already.”

“I suspected,” admitted the Jedi. “I could never find him, in the Force.”

“Surely you weren’t surprised,” retorted the Telosian. “You must have known he’d want no contact with you, after learning of your betrayal.”

“Yes, I did know.” The Master’s eyes were distant and shadowed. “But I hoped I was wrong.”

“You weren’t.” The prince made no attempt to soften the sting of the rejoinder, as he rose to leave the room. “I’ll have some food sent in for you, and we’ll resume our discussion later. I . . .”

“Wait, please!” Qui-Gon hated the pleading tone that turned his voice into a whine, but couldn’t find the self-control to postpone the question. “The child. She is your daughter?”

“She is _our_ daughter, Qui-Gon. Mine and Obi-Wan’s.”

“Incredible,” sighed the Master. “She even has his eyes, and his chin. I suppose you used a family surrogate; it’s the only way it makes sense. And he named her, for . . .”

Xan’s face was very still, void of emotion. “She was named for my mother and my grandmother, and of course, you know the origin of her first name.”

The Master nodded, and closed his eyes as a painful memory flared in his mind. “Does he know,” he asked softly, “that she’s . . . .”

“Dead?” Once more, the prince’s tone was hard and unforgiving. “Of course he knows. He would have sensed it, no matter where she was, but, as it happens, he didn’t have to sense it. She found her way here before she died. With only the link they forged as crèche mates to guide her. They called it a miracle, but I’ve seen such things happen before. _He_ is the miracle, Master Jinn, the power behind such incredible things. She found her way here and died in his arms. He was four months pregnant at the time.”

The Jedi stiffened, as all the blood drained from his face, leaving him ashen and stunned. “What did you say?”

Xanatos smiled. “Are you going deaf, Old Man? I told you that Ciara is our daughter, Obi-Wan’s and mine. Have you forgotten your basic xeno-physiology?”

“But Obi-Wan is male. All male.” The Jedi drew a deep breath. “Whether or not you like it, I have good cause to know that.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” Xan’s voice was suddenly cold, almost lethal. “But you’ve forgotten one salient fact. Obi-Wan is K’Hira Melatian. Do you remember what that means, biologically speaking?”

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened, as he sorted through the knowledge he had acquired so long ago concerning the physiological attributes of his padawan’s species. “You can’t possibly mean . . .”

The prince nodded. “Oh, but I can. All K’hira Melatians, of both genders, are born with two sets of reproductive organs - one active, one dormant. Supposedly, it’s a genetic remnant of a period in the prehistory of their planet during which the race was almost wiped out due to some kind of biological catastrophe. At any rate, it turns out that those dormant organs can be activated, given sufficient motivation, determination, deft manipulation of hormone levels, and the efforts of the best geneticists money can buy. Plus the oversight of the galaxy’s best Jedi healer.”

“Mira Soljan,” breathed Qui-Gon. 

“The very same. She stayed at his side for the entire duration of the pregnancy. Played hell with our sex life, I promise you that. Obi-Wan was brave enough to complain, but I confess that the woman scared the shit out of me, and I just did what I was told. Especially after she threatened to castrate me and feed my balls to the fishes if I so much as laid a finger on him.”

Qui-Gon groped for the chair behind him, obviously stunned, his knees suddenly incapable of supporting him, as he struggled to find breath to speak. “Obi-Wan gave birth to a child.”

“Well,” replied Xan, “in the strictest sense of the word, the baby was delivered surgically. The treatments were successful in creating a viable uterus and ovaries and other necessary parts, but, in Mira’s inelegant, but undeniable words, you can’t grow a vagina where a penis already exists. But, in every other way, yes, he did. He carried her, nurtured her.” His voice grew soft. “They even managed, with continued hormone therapy, to enable him to nurse her for a few weeks after her birth. It was . . . if I live forever, I know I will never see anything more beautiful, Qui-Gon. It took my breath away.”

“A child,” whispered Qui-Gon. “A daughter.”

And the room was suddenly heavy with the Jedi’s regret, heavy with his understanding that such a thing would have been possible for him as well. If only . . .

Sudden anger flared through the wistfulness. “And you allowed him to risk himself that way? Surely there was great danger to him; he might have died, to provide you with an heir.”

But Xan was unperturbed. “Surely, Old Master of mine, you’re not still laboring under the misconception that anyone has ever actually been required to allow Obi-Wan to do anything. Throughout his life, he’s thought about what needed doing, and he’s done it and worried about the consequences later. He may have been slightly more discreet in his methods during his years as a padawan, but if you’ll think about it, I’m sure you’ll see that I’m right. He neither asked nor needed my permission.” He grinned then. “Only my money, and my . . . um . . . contribution to the conception, which did, by the way, happen in the conventional manner, if anything about the birth of our daughter could be considered conventional.”

“She is a miracle,” said the Master.

“Yes. She is,” agreed Xan. “She’s also enough of a mini-tyrant to dislike being kept waiting. So, if you’ll excuse me . .

“Xan, let me see him. Please. If you prefer, I won’t even speak to him. Just . . . let me see him.”

The prince of Telos regarded the Jedi with a speculative gaze. “Have you considered,” he said softly, not unkindly, “that seeing him may be incredibly painful for you? I’ve told you that he’ll be the one to decide if you’re to be accepted in our community, but you need not confront him, should you choose not to. You have no reason to believe that I’ve truly changed, but I’m no longer obsessed with vengeance, and I have no desire to inflict unnecessary pain, not even for you.” 

“I am grateful,” said the Master, “but I need this, Xan. I need to see for myself. I need to know . . .”

“That you didn’t succeed in destroying him,” said Xanatos, suddenly understanding.

“Yes.”

Unexpectedly, the prince grinned. “Then come along, Master Jinn. The sight of my husband making flipcakes is truly one of the greatest wonders of the galaxy.”

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

The early morning sun reflected off the argent waters of the river, swollen at this season with the run-off of melting snows at higher elevations, and cast gleaming riffs of radiance through the huge windows that fronted the kitchen of the Kenobi/Aji dwelling, bathing everything and everyone in light as thick and golden as processed honey, but the warmth that permeated the house had nothing to do with the richness of the sunlight and everything to do with the natural interaction of the individuals gathered therein. Xanatos, after dispatching a very disgruntled Captain Remmisch to return to the ship and fetch the children and the droids waiting there, led the way toward the rear of the cottage, toward a murmur of conversation, punctuated by frequent laughter and voices raised in friendly banter, which announced that more than just a father and his daughter were engaged in the preparation of first meal. There was a cheerful quality to the verbal exchanges, providing a perfect counterpoint for the giggles and bright chatter of a little girl who was obviously growing up in a home filled with light and love and peace, where she was encouraged to be heard as well as seen.

The air was rich with the fragrance of freshly-brewed jaffa, mingled with some form of local fruit, tart and slightly spicy, and what might have been a smoky variety of herbal tea, and two young men, of similar height and build but otherwise as different as day from night – one with wheat blonde hair, milky skin, and pale eyes, the other dark of hair and eye and golden of skin, and immediately familiar to the Jedi - straddled stools at a chest-high bar and inhaled deeply of the steam rising from heavy, butter-colored ceramic mugs, both faces reflecting a depth of enjoyment that seemed almost religious in its intensity. In a pool of morning radiance, the crown princess of Telos – looking more ruffian than royal – writhed and shrieked under the playful assault of a parti-colored, mop-like creature, with shaggy fur, a black, shiny nose, stubby legs, and huge, floppy, translucent ears, as her father maneuvered around her with unstudied grace. Off to the left of the sun-filled room a small alcove contained a gleaming wooden table, with seating built in under a semi-circular sweep of mullioned glass, with a riotous tangle of bright foliage erupting from a dozen containers affixed to the woodwork. A slender woman with long, dark hair was tucked into the corner of the booth, her face turned toward the loveliness of the garden, which provided a surrealistic patchwork of vivid pastels, just visible through the window.

Xanatos seemed completely at ease as he entered the kitchen and moved to greet his husband, but Qui-Gon noticed that the Telosian had been careful to place himself between the Jedi Master and the object of his intense interest for as long as possible. He then proceeded to distract Obi-Wan in a manner that was disconcertingly direct, by moving up behind his husband, draping his arms around a slender waist, and nuzzling soft, gentle kisses into the sweet, tasty flesh at the base of the skull, using his chin to brush aside long silken tresses of golden auburn.

It was only then, when Obi-Wan laughed and made a playful attempt to free himself from his mate’s grasp, that the Jedi Master had his first unimpeded view of the young man he had not seen – in the flesh – for nine long years, and, had he been anything less than a powerful Master, he would have betrayed his presence immediately, his shielding blasted into non-existence by the swift upsurge of a tornadic twist of emotions so closely entwined that he could not separate one from another – need, frustration, regret, hunger, pride, loneliness, and love. Above all else, love. How, he asked himself, as he had every hour of every day of the past nine years, had he hidden so much desire, so much longing, so much passion, from the surface of his conscious mind? How could he have simply opened his hand, and let this treasure trickle away?

He elected to pause just outside the brightness of the kitchen, allowing the shadows of the hallway to obscure his presence, to give him time to regain his composure and to revel in the rich textures of the scene before him. If time had been kind to Xanatos, it had worshipped at the feet of his bondmate. Obi-Wan was radiant, surrounded by an aura that was almost physical, almost luminous, glimmering with energy and purity, and a sense of unalloyed joy. Qui-Gon felt his breath catch in his throat, realizing that he had been indulging himself in comforting delusions for as long as he could remember, having convinced himself, somehow, that the young man he had so cavalierly driven away could not possibly have been as beautiful, as exquisitely lovely, as he had remembered. Now, there was no more evading the truth, as reality gripped his heart with fingers of flame; his former padawan had only grown more beautiful with the passing years.

Still unaware of being observed, and managing – barely – to ignore the distraction of his spouse’s amorous efforts, Obi-Wan deftly lifted a large, flat-bottomed skillet and twisted to deposit its contents, with a flick of his wrist, into a waiting platter, before turning back to the cooking unit, to replace the pan atop a blue-hot flame and quickly ladle in a generous portion of creamy batter. A fine sheen of perspiration touched his skin with a healthy glow and dampened the sweep of red-gold hair that flowed like molten copper halfway down his back, as he monitored the progress of his culinary efforts with determined concentration, the tip of a pink tongue caught between perfect white teeth. He wore only a pair of disreputable leggings – tight enough to reveal the sweet curve of butt and thighs – and a faded blue tunic, unbuttoned to reveal the sculptured chest with its light dusting of ginger hair and a platinum hoop, adorned with faceted stones of deep emerald and amethyst, dangling from his left nipple.

“Ah, if they could see you now,” said the dark-haired young man, one-time Jedi knight and perpetual free spirit Garen Muln, apparently having ingested enough jaffa to render him capable of communication. “Perennial padawan-of-the-year Kenobi – a short-order cook.”

The dark-haired woman turned and grinned, and Qui-Gon Jinn was stunned to recognize Jedi Master Luminara Unduli. “Not to mention,” she laughed, “concubine of the Dark Prince of Telos.”

Obi-Wan lifted a single finger, circled by a broad, gem-encrusted band. “Hey,” he protested easily. “I’m legal, thank you very much.”

“Also,” said the blonde young man, face still buried in his mug, “mother of the year.”

Quickly twisting out of his mate’s arms, Obi-Wan leaned over and dropped a kiss on the crown of his daughter’s head. “Can’t dispute that one,” he said softly, jewel-toned eyes awash with love.

“And,” said Xan softly, with a glance over his shoulder as he replaced his arms around Obi-Wan’s waist as the younger man straightened to return to his task, “love of my life.”

“Oh, blech!” Luminara’s smile belied the sharpness of her comment. “If you two are going to go all mushy on us, I’m going to take over the cooking.”

“Wait!” snapped Garen. “Let me get the fire extinguisher, and the bicarb.”

“Very funny!” replied the slender female, her facial tattoos bright and obviously newly refreshed against pale amber skin as she addressed a particularly obscene gesture toward the ex-knight.

Obi-Wan favored her with a brilliant smile. “You have many talents, dear Lumi, but cooking is not among them, and kindly do not teach my daughter your particular brand of sign language.”

She laughed and winked at him, deliberately pitching her voice at a deep, provocative level. “Why don’t you ditch the majestic munchkin there, and come on over here so I can demonstrate some of my – um – talents.”

Everyone laughed, enjoying the good-natured ribbing, and Obi-Wan lifted the heavy skillet, preparing to upend the flipcake, to cook the bubbled topside. “Speaking of talents,” he said with a smug grin, “it’s all in the wrist.”

And he quickly thrust the pan upward, jerking his hand at the exact, correct moment to send the flipcake soaring into the air, so that it would turn over and flop back into the pan to finish cooking.

Only, it didn’t. It soared rightly enough – and kept soaring, to impact, with a decided splat, against the planked ceiling, and cling there.

For a moment, the entire room was plunged into total silence, until Garen – predictably – spoke up to fracture the moment. “Obi, m’love,” he drawled, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but, this time it’s not in the wrist. It’s on the ceiling.”

Obi-Wan sighed, and lifted laughing eyes to meet those of his husband, who was still seeking out accessible bare skin for nibbling. “I was never able to convince him that nobody likes a smart-ass.”

“If you like,” said the prince, between nibbles, “I could have him drawn and quartered for you.”

Then Obi-Wan was driven to roll those expressive eyes, becoming a vision of long-suffering patience, as a little voice rose in a nursery rhyme cadence. “Smart-ass, smart-ass, Uncle Garen’s a smart-ass.” The child then erupted in a bright riff of laughter, hiccupped suddenly as her papa put a quick stop to her chant with one admonitory finger, just as Garen pounced, and proceeded to roll her, himself, and the family pet around the kitchen floor, forcing both her parents to dodge flailing feet and legs and various other appendages.

Luminara hooted with laughter. “Way to go, Kenobi. At this rate, she’ll be swearing like a Corellian spacer by the time she’s six.”

From his vantage point in the shadowed doorway, Qui-Gon Jinn spent a moment basking in the sensations swirling around him, experiencing the warmth and loveliness of the domestic setting like gentle sunlight on a spring day, and realizing that, while the entire group gathered before him contributed to the sweet ambiance of hearth and home, it was Obi-Wan who was the primary source, who exuded a glow that one could almost taste and touch, a glow that was almost incandescent, that bathed everyone around him in the brightness of his spirit, a glow that was almost . . . almost . . .

The Jedi Master frowned. Almost . . . what?

The rough banter continued as Obi-Wan used a fine tendril of Force energy to retrieve the flipcake from its tenuous attachment to the ceiling, before he twisted to allow his mate greater access to the hollows of his throat and froze as his eyes were drawn to the figure standing motionless in the hallway.

And everything went silent and still, as all color drained from the young man’s face, and he was seized by sudden tremors, held upright only by the strength of his bondmate’s arms.

Realizing that he had no leverage here, that his role was that of a supplicant begging favors he had done nothing to deserve, Qui-Gon briefly entertained a notion of dropping to his knees and assuming the position favored by Jedi padawans to signify total penitence, but he dismissed the impulse immediately, knowing that Obi-Wan – despite the distance that now separated them, the gap having grown exponentially through nine long years – would know intuitively that the gesture was basically meaningless. A cloak of humility, despite all the sanctimonious verbiage of the Jedi Code, was not a good fit for Jedi shoulders.

Instead, he opted for honesty, accepting the fact that there was no more room for subterfuge or posturing, that only truth would serve at such a critical juncture; he stepped forward into the silence, and allowed the last remnants of his shielding to fall away from his consciousness, exposing the center of his being to eyes which had once known him better than any others ever would.

“Hello, Obi-Wan,” he said softly, surprising himself by finding the capacity to speak calmly, when, in his core, everything he had ever known had shifted suddenly, as if his very existence had been torn from one dimension and thrown into another. Abruptly, he was submerged in the sensual awareness of Obi-Wan, drowning in resurrected memory and resurgent desire, and in imminent danger of sensory overload, as everything else paled and receded into insignificance.

On the other hand, the struggle for composure that raged behind the frozen features of his former padawan was fiercely fought, but brief. Obi-Wan Kenobi had been confronting – and overcoming – mountainous obstacles throughout his life; this would be no exception, and none but his consort would ever have an inkling of what it cost him.

“Master Jinn,” he replied, his voice totally without inflection, but the gaze he turned on his husband was sharp and demanding.

Xanatos stepped forward and slipped his arms around his lover’s waist and lowered his face to touch his forehead to that of the man who was the keeper of his heart. “Qui-Gon is here,” he said softly, “to ask for sanctuary.”

There was a strangled sound from one of the three who had moved to stand behind the two bondmates, and Luminara Unduli – sensing the bitter fumes of hostility rising within the Force – was quick to grab little Princess Ciara and whisk her out of the room. And not a moment too soon, as it happened.

“You _are_ joking!” said Garen Muln in a voice hard-edged with fury. “Tell me you are fucking kidding me, Xan. You want to offer sanctuary . . . to this . . . this black-hearted son of a bitch?”

“Not particularly,” answered Xanatos, his eyes soft with devotion as he studied his consort’s expression. “But it’s not my call to make.”

Obi-Wan’s sigh was barely audible as he closed his eyes and lowered his face into the hollow of Xan’s throat. 

“I’m truly sorry, my love,” whispered the Telosian, stroking gentle fingers through silky tresses. “But I can’t make this decision for you; I don’t have the right.”

To the surprise of everyone, Obi-Wan allowed himself a very small laugh. “If you don’t, who does?”

“How about me?” snapped Garen, his anger growing brighter and hotter with each moment. “Will I do? I’ll be happy to send Master Mind-fucker on his way.” And he proceeded to stalk forward, resentment written in every line of his body as he gave no indication of a willingness to stand down.

“Garen,” barked Obi-Wan quickly, but to no avail as his childhood friend ignored him and continued to move toward the Jedi Master with grim determination.

“You would do well, Knight Muln,” said Qui-Gon sternly, emerging from his stunned state only enough to stand firm and refuse to be intimidated, “to remember your place.”

“My _place_?” The former knight’s smile was cold and menacing. “My place, oh, exalted Master, is where it’s always been – right here, between you and Obi. My place is making sure you never have the opportunity to destroy him again. Oh, and just in case it slipped your mind, I haven’t been a knight – _we_ haven’t been knights - for the last nine years, thanks to you and your precious holier-than-thou Jedi Order.”

The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches, as neither individual showed any indication of stepping back from the brink of violence, but it was Obi-Wan who ultimately took control of the moment. “That’s enough, Garen,” he said firmly, stepping out of the circle of Xan’s arms and into the path of his incensed companion. “This isn’t the time or place; this is my home, and that of my daughter and my husband. I’ll have no blood spilled here.”

For a fraction of a moment, it appeared that Garen might choose to ignore the admonition, so overwhelmed was he by the upsurge of righteous indignation that drove him. But, in the end, he stopped – bare inches away from his intended target – and contented himself with a frigid glare that dared the towering Master to dispute the territorial nature of his challenge.

Qui-Gon’s eyes registered the menacing posture and the steely glint of rage in the younger man’s dark eyes, but the impressions made little impact; he was far too consumed, too overwhelmed, with the euphoric sensations of his former padawan’s physical presence. He tried to center himself in the Force, inhaling deeply, but he almost reeled before the continuing rush of familiarity. For the first time in many years, he could feel the old connection to his padawan, which still existed within him, would always exist within him; the younger man’s aura was sweet on his tongue and in his breath, and sparking warmth in a heart too long gripped with the ice of hopelessness.

Moving very slowly, as if in a dream state, he extended one trembling hand, as he realized that his eyes were incapable of absorbing all the details of the visual feast that stood before him. Barely remembering to breathe, he was consumed by the need to touch – to savor, and he leaned forward, reaching toward the jeweled ring that was just visible beneath Obi-Wan’s gaping tunic. But the connection was never made, as an elegant hand closed over his wrist, and applied sufficient pressure to force him to shake off his distractions and regain some measure of self-control.

“I said I’d changed,” said Xanatos in a surprisingly genial tone, but there was no mistaking the glacial glint of ice in his eyes. “I didn’t say I’d gone senile. You may look all you wish, Jinn . . .” and the absence of the honorific was deliberate and very pointed, “but you may not touch.”

Qui-Gon’s voice was harsh with suppressed emotion. “Shouldn’t that be up to him?” he asked, obviously challenging Xan’s authority, but unable to tear his eyes away from Obi-Wan’s face. 

“It _is_ up to him,” replied the prince, with a bright grin. “It always was.”

The Master tried to hear and comprehend the nuances of the Telosian’s words, but he could hear nothing, see nothing, understand nothing beyond the need pounding within him, driving him, compelling him.

“Obi-Wan.” He knew he must say more – must speak now – must use all the powers of persuasion which had transformed him into a legend among the Jedi. Must . . .

“I expected you sooner,” said Obi-Wan flatly, crossing his arms, and leaning back against the solidarity of his bondmate’s body.

The fog that seemed to cloud the Master’s thought processes shifted, and his eyes sharpened as he met his former padawan’s gaze. “I . . . was expected?”

“Yes,” replied Obi-Wan, still without emotion, “you were. You . . . and your companions.”

Qui-Gon drew a deep breath, reaching once more for his center, realizing that he could not allow himself to yield to the dreadful hunger that threatened to devour him. “How did you know? Does anyone else . . .”

“Relax, Jinn,” said Xanatos, obviously amused by the Jedi’s confusion. “Have you forgotten the power of his gifts? Does it really surprise you, that he would know?”

The uncertainty, which had come to be a constant companion to the Jedi since his world had ended in flame and blood, flared to painful brightness. “Yes, but how. . .”

“I felt their birth,” replied Obi-Wan, “and, later, their mother’s death.” The inflectionless tone faltered then, as his eyes grew soft and unfocused. “She suffered terribly.”

“Yes,” agreed Qui-Gon, “and died in silence, refusing to betray the knowledge of her children’s existence. Surely, such courage earned . . .”

“The children of Skywalker are welcome here, Master Jinn,” said Obi-Wan with a tiny smile that indicated that there had never been any question of answering differently. “But you must know that their safety can only be guaranteed to a certain point. Eventually, a new sanctuary will be needed – a place where Vader will never think to look. Unfortunately, that place is not here. Sooner or later, once he has completed the annihilation of Palpatine’s declared enemies, he will begin a systematic elimination of all who maintain their independence from the Empire. Sooner or later, he’ll come here; it’s unavoidable. In some ways, it’s surprising that he hasn’t done so already.”

“Meaning?” The question was a breathless whisper, and Obi-Wan’s smile was slightly venal, as if he understood that the asking had been no more than a formality. The answer was obvious.

“He knows I’m here, and he’s never forgiven me for standing between him and the thing he desired above all others.”

Qui-Gon nodded, still unable to look away from his former padawan’s beautiful face. “I could never give him what he wanted. I could never . . .” He paused then, to search Obi-Wan’s eyes, seeking something that he knew he would not find. And yet, it was time for candor, for honesty, for discarding old barriers and half-truths, regardless of any response such an action might generate. He took a deep breath, and continued. “I spent years denying my love for you, Padawan, but Ani knew. He always knew, and, beneath all the Jedi posturing and stoicism, I knew too. As I still know today.”

“Don’t,” said Obi-Wan quickly, raising one hand to stop the flow of words. “There’s no reason to go into this, no need to . . .”

“The need,” answered Qui-Gon firmly, “is mine. I’ve waited too long to speak the truth, lived too long with it locked away inside me. Please hear me now. It changes nothing, atones for nothing, but I want you to understand that I don’t come to you asking forgiveness, for I have finally realized that there can be no forgiveness for the great wrong that was done to you. I claimed to be unaware of your suffering; it took years for me to admit otherwise. I refused to acknowledge it, but I knew, and I counted the depth of your pain as a measure of how much you loved me. It was . . . a source of comfort for me. Only later did I come to know how despicable, how incredibly cruel and callous that smug complacency was.”

He paused again, and forced himself to continue to meet the gaze of the man he had betrayed so completely. “You have no reason to believe me, no reason to trust me, but I’m compelled to say this. To open my heart and allow you to see what’s written there. Believe it or reject it; the choice is yours. But finally, after a lifetime of lying to myself, I finally know the truth of it; I have loved you through all the years of our shared lives and will continue to love you, through all eternity, if the Force wills it. Knowing that there is nothing I could do which would ever be enough, I still need to tell you that I would do anything – _anything_ – to make it up to you, to make you understand how much I regret what I did to you. I ask nothing of you now, require no response, no forgiveness, nothing beyond being allowed to speak, and to thank you for allowing me the opportunity to see you like this. There is joy in your eyes, Obi-Wan, and I’m content to see it there, wishing only that I had been the one to cause it.”

For a moment, there was only heavy silence, as former Master and padawan continued to stare at each other, neither sure of what to say. As Qui-Gon had observed, there was indeed joy in Obi-Wan’s eyes, but there was also the ghost of old pain, controlled and restricted, but still an integral part of the person he was. On the other hand, the Master’s expression held only weariness and resignation; Qui-Gon no longer felt any connection to hope.

After several breathless moments, the sound of slow clapping shattered the frozen tableau; Garen Muln, obviously, was neither convinced, nor willing to be. “Bravo, Master Manipulator. Obviously, you haven’t lost your touch.”

“Garen,” said Obi-Wan wearily, “just . . . let it go. It doesn’t matter.”

Moving with the Force-enhanced speed that was characteristic of the Jedi knight he had once been, the dark-haired young man leapt forward, and laid his hands atop Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “You said the same thing nine years ago, and you were wrong then too. It mattered; it still does. Maybe you can forgive him, because you weren’t forced to stand by, helpless to do anything to make it right, make it better, but the rest of us saw what he did to you. What _they_ did to you. And I’m telling you, Obi, there’ll be glaciers on Tatooine before any of us forget or forgive a single detail.”

Obi-Wan favored his old friend with a tender smile. “I know,” he whispered, “but it changes nothing. You’ve trusted me through all these years. So trust me now.”

“That’s not the issue,” Garen retorted.

“Yes, it is,” insisted Obi-Wan gently. 

Garen closed his eyes, and whispered softly – too softly to be heard – but Obi-Wan heard it anyway. “I know,” he replied, wrapping one arm around his old friend’s neck. “I love you too.”

At that moment, Luminara burst into the kitchen, being tugged forward by one very determined, grim-faced little girl, who was displaying a great deal more physical strength than any child her age should logically possess.

“Daddy,” the child cried, reaching for her father with splayed fingers.

Obi-Wan went to his knees to embrace his daughter as she wriggled free of Luminara’s grasp and threw herself into his arms.

“What, my poppet? What’s wrong?” he asked, as Xan settled into a crouch behind him, encircling both his spouse and their child with strong, steady arms.

“You have to let him stay, Daddy. You have to.”

Obi-Wan straightened and leaned back, in order to peer into the eyes of his daughter – eyes identical to his own. He didn’t question her certainty; he just smiled and touched his lips to her forehead.

“You are welcome to stay here, Master Jinn,” he said softly, still lost in wonder at the delicate beauty of his daughter’s face. “For as long as it is safe.”

Qui-Gon was barely able to respond, so enchanted was he by the exquisite loveliness of the vignette at his feet. “Thank you, Obi-Wan.”

But it was Xanatos who rose and turned to face the Jedi, to frame a reply. “Your gratitude is somewhat misguided, Jinn. It is, perhaps, our daughter to whom you owe thanks, and her gifts.”

“Gifts?” he echoed, still breathless.

“Gifts,” confirmed the Telosian. “She is, after all, our daughter – his and mine – and she has inherited Force abilities from both of us.”

The Jedi looked up then, intrigued by a strange note in Xan’s voice. “You mean she . . .”

“She _sees_ , Master Jinn, though she doesn’t always understand what she sees.”

Qui-Gon nodded, and turned away to take his leave, but the encounter was not quite ended yet. Both Garen and Xanatos followed the Jedi into the corridor, leaving Obi-Wan on his knees in the midst of a lovely father-daughter moment.

The three moved out onto the broad porch that stretched across the front of the cottage, and paused in an uneasy silence.

“I will allow this,” said Xanatos finally, “because Obi-Wan has agreed to it, and because my daughter believes it must be so, but it doesn’t sit well in my heart. I’ll maintain my silence, and let you build your own place in our little village, but know this, Old Master. You will not be allowed to hurt him again. One single misstep, and you are gone. Understood?”

Qui-Gon nodded, his eyes steady under the prince’s frigid glare. Finally, Xan sighed, and walked back into the house, obviously still gripped by misgivings, but resigned to accepting that which he felt powerless to change.

Garen, however, lingered, his eyes still cold and unrelenting as he waited until they were alone.

Then he stepped forward, deliberately invading the Jedi Master’s personal space, before beginning to speak. “He’s right about one thing,” he said grimly. “You won’t hurt him again. One misstep, just one, and you won’t be gone, Master Jinn. You’ll be dead, and damn the consequences. Are we clear?”

Anger flared in Qui-Gon’s eyes, and, for a moment, he was a pale version of the Jedi he had once been. “You would risk everything - the resurgence of the Light, the destruction of the Sith, the resurrection of the Jedi – to protect one man?”

The Master was amazed when the young man smiled. “You still don’t get it, Jinn. You still don’t understand. That’s how love happens, one person at a time. Learning that and accepting it enabled us to go on, in facing the loss of everything we ever believed in, and failing to learn it is what doomed your precious order. You rejected your passion; we embraced ours, and, in the end, we may all die. But, at least, we die together. You die alone. Think about it.”

He held the Jedi’s gaze for a moment, before turning and walking away, leaving Qui-Gon to ponder his final words and decide that he really didn’t want to follow the young man’s suggestion. He didn’t want to think about it.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

The tiny house was tucked away in a copse of rilatha trees, currently gowned in drifts of waxy blossoms, creamy white with throats of molten ruby. It was situated at the rear of a terraced slope, with bright ripples of the river just visible beyond the new-growth forest that had sprung up on its flanks in recent years, in response to growth enhancements provided by those capable of utilizing and manipulating Force energy. It had all been done very subtly, thus avoiding any spikes of Force energy that might have drawn the notice of imperial monitors – but the results were rather spectacular, resulting in a bucolic setting that was alternatively soothing and stimulating to those who had migrated to Arbory 3 in recent years.

Qui-Gon Jinn sat in the sheltered core of a towering shelmigalth tree, definitely not a product of Force enhancement, as it had probably been old when Master Yoda was a child. The Jedi Master swiftly suppressed that thought; he did not want to follow that reference to its natural conclusion. What and where Yoda was – or was not – was a subject best left unexplored.

Among others.

A shout of bright laughter drew his attention to the meadow spread out below him, and he experienced a burst of contentment as he watched two tow-headed youngsters tumbling around a thick patch of bright scarlet wildflowers, along with a slender young woman with a mane of dark, silky hair. She had been introduced to him only as M’ritte, and he had realized immediately that she had suffered some terrible physical/emotional trauma, probably at the hands of the Sith. She did not speak, and there was an emptiness in her dark eyes that was painful to behold. No one had volunteered an explanation of her injuries or her condition, and he had quickly come to realize that, in this enchanted place, the events of the past were meant to be left there, as much as possible.

The girl was mute, whether because of physical injury or by choice made no difference. But she was able to express herself from the heart remarkably well. The Skywalker children – Leia and Luke – had gravitated to her immediately, and she had taken over their care as if created for the task. And maybe she had been. Qui-Gon knew instinctively that, while he had provided for their fundamental needs scrupulously during the term of their journey, he had never been able to provide the kind of warmth and affection that seemed to come so naturally to her, and he was inordinately grateful for her skills. Once – long ago – he had been capable of establishing a loving rapport with children, but that ability was no longer his to command.

He knew that the responsibility for the welfare of these children would always fall on his shoulders, but he was grateful for the respite from duty that the girl granted him.

And now he was able to sit here in this tranquil place, and breathe deeply to refill himself with the bright presence of the Force and try to compose himself to think about the unthinkable. He was grateful for the serenity of this place, and for the wordless acceptance of the residents of the village. If questions had been posed, they had been posed elsewhere; no one had approached him with demands for explanations, or justifications, and no one had required genealogical data about the children or their origin. He didn’t know if they had been recognized as the offspring of the Dark Lord of the Sith, but he didn’t think it would matter much anyway. Whether or not these villagers acknowledged their one-time connection to the Jedi Order, they continued to practice the basic tenets of tolerance and racial equality that had been the hallmark of the Jedi philosophy.

There were no more Jedi, to all intents and purposes. But there were still decency and honor and noble purpose, and the people who had gravitated to this place had unfailingly brought such principles with them, and built their new lives basking in the incredibly bright warmth of the young man who was the heart and soul of this sanctuary.

Too bright.

He had known it from the first moment, but he had refused to consider its meaning.

He had spent ten glorious days settling in, growing accustomed to a pace that was determined by the natural rhythms of the planet and the seasons, rather than some arbitrary concept of time. Though basically a somewhat primitive place, limited in technological resources and conveniences, the settlement was rich in cultural diversity and sociological interaction. The residents were both amiable and opinionated, leading to lively discussions and debates and an easy willingness to offer assistance as needed. He had relished the atmosphere, and realized quickly that he could easily adopt such a place as a home, one more precious and perfect than any he had ever known.

He had seen little of Obi-Wan during those days, mostly confined to catching glimpses of the younger man as he rode about the village or the countryside on a magnificent pegyro stallion – the incredibly graceful four-legged beast that seemed to be his primary means of transportation, and which seemed to be a biological relation of the famous winged pegeijin of Alderaan. Though the local version of the creature was wingless, Qui-Gon could attest to the fact that the beast could, nevertheless, fly, as he had been reduced to heart-stopping terror by the vision of his former padawan and his mount, moving as one, taking flight over a deep-cut ravine that marked the border between forest and meadow, beside the path that led down to the village proper. Both rider and beast had greeted the challenge with a keen sense of exhilaration that the Master could actually taste through the Force. When the leap had been completed successfully, it had been some time before his heartbeat had returned to its normal cadence. 

The gentle march of days had continued unabated, and the Master had not spoken to his former padawan at all during that period, had not even been close enough to shout a greeting though he had occasionally recognized an outburst of melodic laughter floating down from the hills behind his cottage, and once, as the sun sank in the west, he had watched as a silhouette of quadruped and rider paused against that radiant backdrop, only to be joined shortly by a second rider, and he was immediately aware of a gentle ache in his heart as the two silhouettes merged to become one. No details were visible, but there was no doubt that he was seeing the joining of bondmates, proclaiming their bond for all to see, against the most spectacular of nature’s creations. 

Qui-Gon, over all, was surprised to find himself experiencing a contentment he had not known for many long years, discovering that the occasional fleeting sight of his former apprentice astride the great chestnut colored stallion, sitting tall and straight in the saddle with sunlight glinting in his hair, was enough to cause his breath to catch in his throat and inspire him to realize that, if this was as much as he would ever be allowed to have of Obi-Wan’s life, it would be enough, for the young man’s aura fairly pulsed with happiness. He found a certain satisfaction in resolving that he could live the rest of his life this way, just to be allowed to catch glimpses of such pure joy.

Ten days of sweet, unhurried meditation, of peaceful slumber and simple, satisfying meals, of watching the beautiful children of Padmé Naberrie adapt to a life free of fear and menace and the need for concealment, of accepting the fact that, albeit reluctantly, he seemed to be the legal owner of the two droids – R2D2 and C3PO – that had been bequeathed to him by the children’s mother, and who had turned out to be instrumental in helping him conceal the existence of the Skywalker children throughout the rigors of their wanderings, and who had, simultaneously, driven him to the brink of insanity on numerous occasions. Ten days of making new acquaintances and renewing a few old ones. Ten lovely, stress-free days.

He realized now that he should have been grateful for the period of adjustment and for the privilege of being allowed to wrap himself in the bliss of ignorance.

On the morning of the eleventh day, he had opened his door, intending to carry his freshly brewed tea to a seating area on his flagstone porch, and found a visitor awaiting him.

And he had known immediately. Had known, and would have given anything not to know.

Mirilent Soljan, at one time the premier healer of the Jedi Temple, was not given to mincing words, especially when dealing with a man who had given her no reason, over the years, to be concerned with sparing his feelings, and every reason not to.

Still, she had been unusually terse, not even bothering to spear him with the barbed commentary that customarily opened their conversational engagements. He had waited in silence, prepared to accept any scathing remarks she might care to make, knowing that, ultimately, he deserved her scorn. But when she had finally spoken, there had been nothing in her tone – no resentment, no anger – nothing beyond a terrible, heartrending weariness. She had simply extended one hand, and dropped a datachip into his palm, offering little in the way of explanation.

“No one else has seen this,” she said very softly. “And you see it only because he decided that you should. I don’t know why he wants this, but he does, and that’s enough for me. Just be mindful that the information here is not to be shared with others – not unless _he_ decides to share it. Understand?”

The Master nodded, noting that the tiny healer, who had never, within his memory, flinched away from meeting the gaze of anyone she might face, had not bothered to look into his eyes – not even once.

She turned to go, not quite managing to suppress a soft sigh that escaped her lips as she looked out into the lavender mists of early morning. “Have you forgiven me, Mira?” he said as she moved away from him. “Have you finally found it in your heart . . .”

She did not turn back to face him, but she did pause, fingers clinched tight around the carved finial of the wooden porch railing. “Forgiven you?” she echoed, barely audible. “No, Qui-Gon. I haven’t forgiven you. I’m not Obi-Wan; I don’t have that kind of forgiveness within me. But . . .”

“But?” he prompted when she fell silent, and seemed undecided about how to proceed.

She turned then, and lifted her eyes to study his expression, and he almost recoiled from the terrible anguish he read in her face. “But how can I condemn you for failing him, when I’ve failed him more? You took his dreams, Jinn. I took his life.”

“Mira, no,” he said quickly, firmly. “I don’t yet understand what’s happened, but I know you. I know how you love him. You wouldn’t hurt him. You wouldn’t . . .”

“Did you love him?” she demanded, showing at last some spark of her old, familiar spirit.

“You know I did, and do.”

She nodded and looked away. “Strangely enough, you’re right. I do know, but loving him didn’t stop you from tearing him apart. Did it? In the name of the ‘Will of the Force’, you ripped his heart out, while telling yourself you had no choice.”

He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to offer all those old, tired, shopworn excuses. But he didn’t. He found that he had no more desire to run away from the truth, even the ugliest truth. “Yes,” he agreed. “I did, but you . . .”

“Did you know,” she asked in a strange, remote voice, “that there are only a few dozen members of his race still alive today? Just a handful – scattered to all the corners of the known galaxy.” She turned once more to face him. “He was so excited, Qui-Gon. I’ve never seen him like that; he was radiant, jubilant - drunk on hope and . . . possibilities. It was one of Xan’s cultural research teams that found a stash of old archives tucked away in a deep cavern on a Melatian moon. They brought it here, knowing Obi-Wan’s racial heritage. They brought it as a gift, to the consort of their king, and the scholars spent months decrypting and translating the text. And when they were done and had presented it to Obi-Wan, it was all there. The case histories of those who had undergone the procedure, and the documented medical data, detailing the methods and course of treatment to use.”

Once more, her eyes seemed to lose their focus, as she looked back into memory. “He brought it to me and told me what he wanted to do. But . . . I had grave misgivings. How could I trust information garnered from ancient manuscripts? How could I trust his life, to that?”

“But he convinced you,” said Qui-Gon, remembering all too well his padawan’s penchant for persuasion.

“In a very direct way,” she answered. “He fell on his knees and begged. Swore that he would never ask me for anything else, that nothing else had ever mattered so much to him. That it was the one thing that would give his life meaning, to make up for all that had been lost.”

The Master sighed. “You can’t blame yourself for being unable to resist that, Mira. You didn’t know . . .”

“But I should have,” she snapped. “I should have known. I’m a healer, Qui-Gon. It’s not just what I do. It’s what I am, and I knew we were dealing with something that was a whole new frontier in medicine, based on archival data that was fragmentary and incomplete, at best – something that had only happened in legend, and myth. But I . . . let myself be persuaded. I let myself give in to the desire to do this for him, to give him something no one else could.” She drew a deep breath. “Less than a year later, the scribes translated another text from the archives; that’s when we learned about the risk, but it was already too late. The baby was near term, and Obi-Wan wouldn’t hear of any effort to terminate the pregnancy. And besides, he was right. There was no point. Only time would disclose if his gamble had been won or lost.”

“I’ve seen how he looks at his daughter,” said Qui-Gon gently. “I don’t think he has any doubts on that score.”

She nodded. “You’re right, he doesn’t. From the moment of her conception, she became – along with Xan - the focus of his life, his reason for living, and no cost was too great. But, much as I love the child, I couldn’t accept that. I lived in dread every day, waiting, cringing every time he coughed or caught a sniffle, or fell victim to a virus. I pumped him full of vitamins and herbs and vaccines for every illness that ever existed in the history of the galaxy, watched his weight and monitored his diet, did everything I could think to do. And, in the end, it was all useless. Ciara was just under two years old, when the symptoms began. All the details are in that datachip, which you can study as you like.”

“And Xanatos?” he said quickly. “How has he handled this?”

She looked down quickly, but not quite quickly enough to prevent the Master from seeing the rise of tears in her eyes. “He doesn’t know,” she whispered, and the desolation in her voice rasped like a blade against sandpaper. “I don’t think Obi knows how to tell him.”

Qui-Gon inhaled sharply, feeling a cold silence enclose his heart, and he turned away sharply, unwilling to hear whatever else she might have to say.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The shelmigalth, with its incredible knot of intertwined trunks creating a nest-like formation at its base, stood sentinel above all the other trees of the young forest. Most of them were little more than saplings – mere adolescents to the gray bearded monolith that counted its lifespan in millennia rather than decades or even centuries. It provided both a physical and a philosophical perspective from which a seeker of wisdom might observe the ephemeral cadence of life and, with luck, discover vestiges of its deeper meaning, or so Qui-Gon had told himself when he first sought the seclusion of its sheltered bower after managing to live through the confrontation with blinding, stunning, mind-bending truth that he could no longer avoid. He had stopped there, within its shadowed core, with some vague notion of finding solace – or wisdom – or some fragment of tranquility, but, in the end, he found only the echoes of memory.

He had been successful in finding enough busy work to avoid activating the datachip provided by the healer for most of the day following her visit. The village of Haijall, on the sparsely populated world of Arbory, was a functioning commune, and all who dwelled within it were expected to contribute to the tasks necessary to feed and care for all its residents. So, for the better part of that day, he had assisted in the clearing of fields on the eastern ridge in preparation for spring planting, pausing occasionally to stare down into the valley where other workmen, under the leadership of a slender figure with hair like molten copper, dug and burrowed in the soil to harvest the last of the winter root vegetables that provided one of the staples of the village diet. The Master had wiped sweat from his brow and paused often to drink from the communal water keg, and enjoyed a keen sense of accomplishment in such simple toil, while smiling to note that none among the throngs of laborers seemed to find anything strange in the fact that the young man working among them, sharing equally in the dirt and sweat and effort, was the consort of their king.

At the end of the day, when the light had failed and he could no longer postpone the long quiet of evening, the Master had returned to his cottage, relaxed for a time in a hot bath, and dined with the children while listening to their chatter about their adventures in the fields and meadows. He had even allowed them to stay up past their bedtime, ignoring the constant remonstrances of the prissy protocol droid who had become such a major nuisance to him since their clandestine departure from Naboo, fleeing before the advancing imperial forces.

But finally, there had been no more excuses, no more acceptable reasons to procrastinate.

He had not bothered to consult a medical dictionary for translation of the inscrutable jargon in which the report had been prepared. He had listened to clinical notes about ‘nucleic acid studies’ and ‘fluctuating endocrine levels’, ‘gradual degradation of synaptic functions’ and ‘acceleration of immune deficiency’, ‘dystrophic neuropathy’ and ‘systemic hormonal failure’. And, of course, the stark, unembellished words that composed the ultimate prognosis: ‘Irreversible’ and ‘Terminal’. So that, in the end, the terminology was unimportant, as the final paragraph of the file said everything that needed to be said.

Master Healer Soljan had managed to record the entire report in a voice that was toneless and impersonal and completely professional.

Until the final entry:

“Someday, someone may document and publish this research, perhaps in the interest of completing the history of the K’Hira Melatian culture and the tragedies that caused its demise. It is even possible that, due to the rareness of this condition, it may be named for the only documented victim. Logically, it would be dubbed ‘Kenobi’s Syndrome’. I will preserve my research and notes for posterity, so that the data will be available, in the event anyone should ever be sufficiently interested to look for it. But such publication will not come from me, as I have finally come to a point in my life that I thought never to reach. I have realized that there are some truths I simply would rather not know. I have lived too long, I think, and now can only pray that I do not live long enough to witness the final chapter of what should have been one of the galaxy’s greatest love stories. I wonder now if such a love is somehow offensive to whatever gods there may be. I wonder if his life is the price they demand for compensation.”

The datapad had shut itself off then, leaving the cottage in heavy, smothering silence, and the Master had remained frozen and numb and reeling for several minutes, before surging to his feet and racing out into the night, thinking to outrun the demons of darkness that had risen, shrieking and clawing, to shred his mind. He had reached for the Force, and found it sluggish and remote, but it had responded well enough to his summons to allow him to set a punishing pace as he streaked over hills and ridges and through forest and valley and meadow, finally putting several miles between him and the village before running out of strength and breath and dropping to his knees to howl his grief and anger to the hovering spirits of the night. During his run, he had steadfastly refused to hear the diabolical laughter that trailed him, preferring to drown it out with a mantra that matched the cadence of his heartbeat.

_It cannot be. It cannot be. It cannot be – it cannot be – it cannot be – it cannot be - itcannotbeitcannotbeitcannot . . ._

At the last, the syllables had ceased to have any meaning, becoming nothing more than random sounds serving only to drown out the babble of hysteria that rose higher and higher in his consciousness.

Later he would wonder how long he had knelt there on the cusp of a rocky overlook that was tucked into the side of a steep ridge, with the valley that cradled the village and the flood plain beyond it, spread out beneath the magnificence of the Arboryan night sky. When he came to himself, stepping out of a yawning chasm of thick, corrosive darkness, his throat was raw from screams he could not remember voicing, and his eyes were crusted and gummy from too many tears shed and wiped away with calloused fingers. He had looked up then and allowed himself to be absorbed momentarily in the abstract work of art above him, as the great crescent nebula sprawled across the eastern horizon, forming a shallow bowl of opalescence to contain a thick concentration of stars.

And he had been seized by tremors, and whispered his despair to the wind. “How can such beauty continue, when the best, the purest, the brightest of us all is poised on the brink of destruction?”

A strange, icy stillness had wrapped itself around him as he had sought, but failed to find the tranquility at the core of his being. _When had this happened? And how? When had the memory of his beloved padawan become the centerpiece of his existence, the solace he reached for when all else failed, and how had he failed to notice the change?_

It had been a monumental struggle then to contain the upsurge of rage that swirled bloody scarlet and obsidian through the pearly mists of his anguish, but, in the end, he had found neither the will nor the strength to resist the tide that consumed him; he had dedicated his life to the conquest of anger and ignorance and passion, only to find the bitter taste of defeat at the end of his quest. 

He had forced himself to rise finally, instantly reminded of the relentless passage of years by the stiffness of his joints, not to mention the lateness of the hour as the stars turned steadily toward dawn. It seemed to be a universal truth, he had acknowledged wearily, that the small hours of the night always coincided – no matter where in the galaxy one might be found - with the ebb tide of the spirit, when hope and confidence and the ability to believe in tomorrow reached the nadir of existence and the darkness achieved dominance over all things. He had begun his somber journey back to his cottage, unable to summon the energy to resist the despair that threatened to drown him within its dark, oily waters; he had moved toward his destination automatically, without conscious thought or attention to his surroundings, as his mind had slipped more and more into the past, seeking the balm of memory to soothe the deep core of his pain.

Hundreds – thousands of images had flooded his consciousness as he walked, battering at the last frail remnants of his inner shields – the visual history of the life he had led with Obi-Wan at his side; images that he had held and cherished in the deepest, best protected chambers of his heart, images that had served as his touchstone, his safe house, his portable sanctuary, available to shelter and welcome his weary spirit when all hope seemed lost. As he trudged along, the realization had struck him, with the cataclysmic power of an epiphany, that Obi-Wan, without ever knowing it, had provided the means for his survival through all these lost, lonely years, even after the trauma of the schism which had torn his ex-padawan away and set them on diverging paths. In the midst of the genocide that marked Palpatine’s final surge to power, when Jedi were being slaughtered like cattle by endless wave after wave of clone troops, Qui-Gon had learned to retreat, at those moments when his ability to endure was exhausted, into a refuge crafted within his own awareness, a bolt hole which allowed him to cringe away from the carnage and the horror by wrapping himself in the cloak of recollection, by overwriting visions of incredible cruelty and vicious bloodlust with images gleaned from the archives of his mind. He had been forced to witness the destruction of the Temple and found courage and consolation by closing his eyes and calling forth remembrance of a mischievous smile and infectious laughter. He had endured, barely able to draw breath, through the soul-rending agony of Anakin’s fall to darkness, watching as the last remnants of the little boy rescued from slavery on Tatooine were consumed by the fires of ambition and greed, while the mocking gaze of the Sith apprentice fell like acid on the Jedi Master, electing to spare his life so that he might be compelled to live with the corrosive guilt that consumed him, devouring mind and soul and spirit in a pattern that renewed itself with each new day and would continue for as long as he drew breath. Yet even then – at the worst moment of his life – his salvation had been in retreating to other places, other times, when the sweet thrill of victory had been reflected in sea-change eyes, and by reliving treasured moments, untainted by the bitter taste of ashes and failure and blood.

Even as he had fled his past and the terrible burden of guilt and remorse, and taken on new burdens in a vain attempt to atone for old mistakes, he had dropped into exhausted slumber each night with only one image held close to his heart – the face of his beloved student, flushed and damp and exquisitely beautiful in the throes of orgasm.

Obi-Wan had been his light against the darkness, his comfort in the night, the bedrock of his faith.

Completing his meandering path just as the first faint pulse of morning touched the eastern horizon, he had made his way across the moonlit meadow where his young wards were wont to play, and looked up to find the massive shelmigalth tree tracing its filigree against the splendor of the heavens. The nest of shadow at its base had beckoned to him, offering solitude and refuge and a place for mourning.

He had slipped into the coolness of its embrace, settling into a fork of twisted trunks, and allowed himself to be cradled by the spongy patches of lichen that clung to its tawny bark, as he was immersed in heavy weariness. He couldn’t begin to judge how far he had fled, seeking a surcease of the pain that drove him, or how long it had been since he had rested. Or how long it would be before he could relax into the gentle grasp of sleep and not flinch away from dark dreams.

But in that final observation, he proved to be mistaken, as he felt the faintest brush of awareness trail its gentle touch across the surface of his troubled thoughts and nudge him toward the solace of dreamless sleep. It had occurred to him then that he had realized, throughout his rambling journey, that he had not walked completely alone, that someone had watched, allowing him to work his way through his anguish, seeking a path to resolution. With that realization, he had experienced a swift surge of anger, an impulse to lash out, to scream his defiance against the tranquil acceptance of all he had learned in the course of this endless night, but the tender spirit that hovered nearby had refused to be goaded. 

Reluctantly, wearily, still weighted down with grief, he had surrendered to his own exhaustion and slept.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

The bright yellow Arboryean sun was approaching its zenith when the Master wakened, roused from a deep, restful slumber by the bright voices of children at play. He came to full consciousness slowly, uncharacteristically, and spent several moments trying to recall where he was and why he was sprawled across a knot of twisted trunks at the base of a huge, monolithic tree, rather than cradled in the soft comfort of his own bed.

He drifted for a time, content to be floating in the semi-twilight between sleep and waking.

Until a particularly shrill outburst of laughter penetrated the mental fog, and memory came rushing in, like air to a vacuum – memory and pain.

He released his dreams reluctantly, to return to the bleak, unrelenting harshness of reality, understanding that he had no choice but to find some way to deal with truths he could not change.

Obi-Wan was dying. How strange, he thought, to string those words together, to know the truth of it but feel that it must be happening to someone else, in some other lifetime, some other reality. Obi-Wan was dying, but he could _not_ die. The Force could not be so cruel, so callous, so malicious, to take away the one thing that the Master had managed to preserve within himself, the source of his ability to renew himself, to enable him to find some remnant of meaning in the carnage that surrounded him on all sides.

His only remaining anchor.

Mace was gone; Adi was gone; Tahl and Ramal and Ciara and Plo and Ki-Adi and Depa and Yaddle and Kitt. And Anakin – Anakin was more gone than any of them. But Obi-Wan . . . _could not go._

He ignored vague physical twinges of discomfort, mild hunger and thirst, stiffness of joints and muscles, and arranged himself in his preferred meditative posture, preparing to fight his own particular private demons. A Jedi did not – ever – refuse to deal with the reality of the moment; a Jedi, in bowing to the will of the Force, must acknowledge that absolute truths could neither be ignored nor tweaked to render them easier to countenance.

Without a trace of the calm dispassion with which he ordinarily approached meditation, he closed his eyes and opened himself to the Force and tried to still the turmoil that continued to flail within him. He knew that the Force would not answer his call, until he could purge himself of the bright bladed rage that threatened to explode into murderous mayhem, seeking flesh and blood victims to answer for creating agony beyond bearing. There was no Light in such fury; he teetered on the brink of darkness and felt its siren’s call. One step, one moment of weakness, and he might very well betray the beliefs that had sustained him throughout his lifetime.

He must accept what could not be changed.

He must open his heart, and release what he had locked away within it so long ago.

_Obi-Wan is dying._

He watched the shadows carved by the brilliance of the Arboryean sun creep across the meadow grasses, first growing shorter and sharper, then, after a pause, slowly lengthening as the day waned, but he noticed only distantly, maintaining his focus on the deep truth that consumed his awareness. In desperation, he plunged into the deepest possible meditative state, training his formidable powers of concentration on the barriers that encapsulated his resistance.

A Jedi could not reject truth; acceptance of what was – what could not be avoided or rationalized – was crucial to finding serenity within the Force.

Hours slipped by, and still his consciousness skittered and slipped and refused to settle into the confining framework of logic. He ignored everything that tried to distract him, accepting only a bottle of water – late in the day - from the tiny R2 unit who had proved to be the less annoying of the two droids bequeathed to him by Padmé Naberrie. On some superficial level, he was aware that the Skywalker children had been gently deflected from interrupting his vigil, and he was grateful for the sensitivity of their young caretaker, but he could not spare more than a random tendril of awareness to pursue the thought. Just as he was aware of the occasional brush of another mind – tentative, unobtrusive, treading lightly.

He ignored it all.

 _Obi-Wan is dying_.

At the last, desperate and beginning to taste the first bitter dregs of failure, he resorted to a very old meditative aid – a mental trick – to help him get to the center he so desperately needed to reach. It was a method he had learned from his own Master, and taught, in his turn, to the young man who now filled his mind and overfilled his heart.

On Beliuss 6, the natives cultivated a bizarre type of bulbous vegetable that Qui-Gon had encountered nowhere else in the galaxy. Shaped a bit like a dela-pear, but surrounded by thick, fleshy, tear-shaped leaves, heavily studded with short, vicious thorns, the t’chok could only be eaten in a specific way. In order to reach the tender heart of the vegetable, the leaves had to be peeled away and removed, one at a time, with great care. Since there were several layers of leaves, and since the thorns were barbed and seemed to have a predilection for flesh, only those with a great fondness for the t’chok’s core ever bothered to complete the task. Most sentients found the reward unworthy of the effort. But for those few – the t’chok connoisseurs – bloody fingers and strained patience were small prices to pay for reaching the delectable objective.

Thus did the Master approach the matter of opening the stubborn shells of his resistance, in order to move beyond the moment in which he found himself locked and helpless, as if caught in amber that solidified too quickly to allow escape.

Throughout the hours of the day, he peeled away layer after layer of emotional shielding, growing more and more confident that he would ultimately be successful in his quest, but more and more convinced that what he found at the core of his being would be too fragile to survive the final assault.

The sun was no more than a hand-width above the western horizon when he stirred and reached for the surface of his thoughts, responding to a nudge through the Force, a pale nuance of a familiar presence, and, as he rose through the layers of his concentration, his anger surged again, effectively erasing any gains he might have made during the long hours of the day. He raised his head and stared down toward the river, where the late afternoon sunlight was dancing among freshets of pristine water. And . . . he paused, peering into the smudged patterns of light and shadow that transformed the setting into a chiaroscuro abstract, and saw . . . yes, just there, down where the path from the village merged into a lane that wound through the dappled glades that marked the approach to the foothills, a bright gleam of ginger hair against a cap of dark curls; the tawny gloss of a stallion’s coat, beautifully groomed; the sleek grace of the quadruped proceeding in an easy gait toward the river’s edge; the caress of light and shadow against a fleeting image of man and child and beast, moving as one.

Without conscious thought, the Jedi surged to his feet and moved at Force-enhanced speed to intercept the rider. He didn’t spare a moment to wonder what he would say to them or why they should deign to speak to him at all. In fact, his action was entirely instinctive, without volition or intent. He moved, because he had no choice, understanding suddenly that he could not complete the task he had set for himself – the acceptance of the impossible – without speaking to Obi-Wan, without demanding answers to questions he simply could not lay to rest.

Grimly, as he ran, he realized that he was no closer to a solution – or a resolution – to his dilemma than he had been when he began his deliberations. _Obi-Wan was dying, but Obi-Wan could not die._

Though the great pegyro stallion was moving swiftly, the firm hand of its master kept it within the confines of the path and its meandering course, while the Jedi Master was under no such constraints and was free to proceed in a straight line, enabling him to arrive at his destination before the riders, and find a sheltered sport in which to await their arrival. Using just a tiny trace of Force enhancement to mask his presence, he stepped into the relative gloom provided by the bright golden foliage of a trio of paraim saplings and settled himself to wait.

The path ended at a narrow meadow abutting an octagonal wooden terrace that jutted out over the surface of the river, just above a series of small cascades that danced and splashed in the afternoon light, and created wisps of rainbow among veils of mist. Off to the right lay the grounds of the Kenobi-Aji compound, amid a colorful sprawl of informal gardens, beyond a rustic rail fence draped with a lush, succulent vine, heavy with brilliant coral blossoms. Pegyro colts gamboled through drifts of pluvera grass in adjacent fields, and the air was rich with the fragrance of spring and the melodies of birdsong. On the left, upriver, a narrow wooden walkway followed the stream’s edge, then angled out and up over the water, ending in a small circular platform that provided a bird’s eye view of the watercourse twenty meters below. Ultimately, all of the natural elements of the environment came together to provide a beautiful setting for the beautiful individuals who resided within it.

Qui-Gon felt a quickening within his heart, a pang of longing that was doomed to go unanswered. He closed his eyes, in an attempt to rein in his aching need and opened them to find that someone else had joined his vigil; someone else awaited the arrival of father and daughter. Xanatos propped one elegant, booted foot against the broad railing that bordered the terrace and took a deep drag of his tabaccré cylinder as he gazed out over the sparkling water. For once, he had foregone his traditional black leather, and was clad in a loose-fitting travel garment of soft smoky blue raw silk, with his ebony hair unbound and gleaming as it fell loose around his face, a soft wave draping over one eye. He was a perfect picture of blasé elegance, except for one thing; his posture betrayed him. Every muscle, every nerve of his body was attuned to the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

And, of course, the bright riff of two voices joined in laughter and limerick.

“Pikklety – pakklety – pox.  
A gundark in a box.  
He painted his nails,  
And braided his tails,  
And stole his mother’s socks.”

The crown princess of Telos erupted in shrill giggles. “You made that up, Daddy.”

“Bukklety-bokklety-bax.  
A granddaddy bantha named Grax.  
He got twisted around  
And his up was his down.  
Now he can’t tell his fronts from his backs.”

The giggles grew louder. “You are soooo silly.”

Obi-Wan’s laughter was rich and mellow. “Only for you, my princess.”

The young father had reined in the pegyro as they’d approached the end of their ride, and they were moving at an easy walk when they cleared the final turn in the path and became visible to the individuals awaiting them, both of whom struggled for breath at the loveliness of the vision before them. Obi-Wan had maintained his preference for the warm earth tones favored by the Jedi, as he wore fawn-colored suede trousers and a cream silk shirt, and the colors suited him perfectly, as they always had, emphasizing the lovely gold and russet of skin and hair. In his arms, his beautiful daughter was dressed in her customary ragamuffin fashion, dark, lustrous hair and jewel-toned eyes glowing with health and vigor.

At that moment, as they emerged from the shelter of the forest, the little princess twisted her torso to fling her arms around Obi-Wan’s throat, and say, “I love it when you’re silly, Daddy.”

“Me too, Love,” he answered, gazing down into her elfin face and rendered almost speechless – as usual - by her loveliness.

Then both turned to face forward, and Ciara squealed in delight. “Papa! Papa’s back.”

Xanatos balanced his tabaccré cylinder on a handrail, and moved to greet his husband and daughter, lifting the little girl out of Obi-Wan’s arms and swinging her overhead.

“Missed you, missed you, Papa,” she chanted, arms extended to reach for her father.

“And I missed you, Poppet.” He pulled her close and kissed cheeks and forehead, while his eyes lifted to meet those of his bondmate. “More than you can imagine.”

It required no Force sensitivity to realize that the remark was intended for both child and spouse, and the expression on Obi-Wan’s face was suddenly as tender as a new bruise.

“Ya know what?” said the little girl brightly, leaning back to peer into her papa’s face.

“What, Darlin’?”

“Uncle Garen called Masta’ Qui-Gon a . . . um, a ‘cuck-socking sunuvabish’, I think. And Daddy won’t tell me what it means, so it must be a bad word, but how do I know what not to say if Daddy won’t tell me what it means?”

Xanatos tried to suppress a grin, but couldn’t. “Eminently logical, my Poppet, but I’m not going to tell you either, and you still can’t say it, whether you know what it means or not.” He looked up to wink at his lover. “I take it our resident grump is still in high dudgeon.”

“Stratospheric,” answered Obi-Wan warmly, “and determined to stay that way.”

“But Papa. . .” Ciara was determined to reclaim her father’s focus.

With a last kiss, the prince set his daughter on her feet and retrieved a small pouch from his pocket. “Enough, Love. There are more important things to think about. For example, would you rather continue to speculate about your uncle’s potty-mouth or feed the p’terra-ducklets?”

With the insouciance of the young, and the demeanor of a princess of the blood royal, the child laughed and accepted the bag of crumbs eagerly before racing across the terrace to kneel within the safety of the wooden railing and command the attention of the young waterfowl that paddled in the shelter of the decking.

She had barely taken her first step when Xanatos reached up to pull his bondmate from the saddle, claiming Obi-Wan’s mouth with insatiable hunger as the younger man let himself slide down his husband’s tall, rangy form, coming to rest finally with bodies melded, shoulder to knee, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle, arms entwined, with Xan’s hands cupping his mate’s shapely bottom. Biting his lip savagely to suppress a moan, Qui-Gon Jinn sank deeper into the lonely shadow of his solitude and felt the emotional pain within him swell and become physical. It was not that his heart was breaking; that, he knew, had happened long ago. It had broken and curled in upon itself, shriveling finally into an empty, echoing shell, dead and locked away from any semblance of life. Now, it seemed to be waking, to quicken to a deep, weary ache, and he knew with absolute certainty that it would be with him for the rest of his life.

 _Obi-Wan is dying_. There would be no escaping that fact, but the pain extended to an even deeper level. He could no longer delude himself into believing that Obi-Wan was still his to mourn – or to love – and the Master wasn’t quite sure which pain was the greater.

Eventually, struggling for breath, Xanatos broke the kiss, only to work his way down his bondmate’s throat, paying particular attention to erogenous zones he had discovered over the years, and whispering between nibbles.

“When I come home to you” – nibble – “all I want to do” – nibble/kiss – “is drag you down to the village square” – nibble – “rip your clothes off” – nibble/kiss – “and make love to you” – nibble – “until you’re so well fucked” – kiss/kiss – “you can’t even move.”

Obi-Wan grinned. “Ummm, kinky, but I always thought you were very proprietary about my naked butt.”

“That’s because,” – the nibbling/kissing continued, as hands began to knead the sweet curve of Obi-Wan’s bottom – “it is, in fact, _my_ naked butt, now and forever.”

“Not much doubt of that,” replied the younger man, beginning to squirm under his mate’s relentless sensual assault, ”since I do have your royal crest tattooed on my ass.”

“Umm,” Xan murmured, tightening his grip on his spouse, “I adore that tattoo, almost as much as I adore the sweet ass that wears it.” He lifted one hand to caress his bondmate’s face with a gentle stroke. “It should be illegal to be so happy . . . and so totally besotted.”

Obi-Wan buried his face in the hollow of Xan’s throat and inhaled deeply, lost in the feel and the scent and the warmth of his lover. “I never knew,” he whispered, “I could love like this.”

Simultaneously, the two leaned back to gaze deep into each other’s eyes, and exchange intimate laughter, when a slight movement in the vicinity of the pegyro stallion attracted Obi-Wan’s attention, urging him to step out of the circle of his mate’s arms. “It’s all right, Chalk’ri,” he said softly, leaning forward to peer under the pegyro’s long neck to look at the small, child-like figure standing in the shadow of the towering quadruped, keeping huge, luminous eyes buried in the beast’s flank. “Come here, please.”

Though the request was spoken in a tone of silken tenderness, the child – if child it was – simply shook its head, hunching shoulders and torso as if to crawl into the skin of the pegyro, had such a thing been possible.

Obi-Wan knelt, one hand extended. “Please?”

In his solitary niche, Qui-Gon felt a stirring of the Force, as it pulsed in response to a massive surge of compassion, causing his breath to catch in his throat. The Master sighed, wondering how he could have forgotten this aspect of Obi-Wan’s persona. Never as entrenched in the Living Force as his Master, or as quick to adopt strays or – as he had often termed them, tongue-in-cheek and twinkle-in-eye – ‘pathetic lifeforms’, the young man had nevertheless always been vulnerable to the suffering and needs of one particular group of individuals. Obi-Wan had always loved children and been loved in return, with a particular affinity for those who had been abused or neglected. Throughout his Jedi career, he had been tremendously successful in maintaining a superficial calm demeanor, no matter how much his passions might have been engaged beneath that serene façade, but, in the face of flagrant abuse of the very young, or the very helpless, he had occasionally been unable to release his anger to the Force, choosing, instead, to release it in a much more primitive, but substantially more satisfying manner. Fist to face. Or – as he preferred to term it – fist to felon.

Following such occasions, he had always promptly confessed his actions to his Master, accepting whatever punishment Qui-Gon deemed appropriate. But he had never offered an apology, explaining, when pressed, that he would not pretend a remorse he did not feel. Justice had been served, and that, in his judgment, superceded the formalities of Jedi doctrine.

The very small, hunched up figure that finally responded to Obi-Wan’s urging did so with obvious reluctance, almost cringing away from the gentle hand that was extended toward it, finally falling to its knees and waiting, head bowed and face concealed beneath a tangled nest of flaxen hair, barely breathing.

“Chalk’ri,” said Obi-Wan, also on his knees, voice filled with infinite tenderness, “this is Lord Xanatos. You need to know him, so you will understand that he belongs here. That he’s no threat to you, or to us. He won’t hurt you, or allow anyone else to hurt you.”

Silence, broken only by ragged breathing.

“Chalk’ri . . .”

“Can’t.” Clipped, barely audible, hoarse.

Obi-Wan paused, obviously considering his options, before leaning forward and grasping the young one’s arms, tightly enough to compel co-operation, but not tightly enough to cause discomfort.

“Sometimes,” he said firmly, “we must do things we don’t want to do, or don’t think we _can_ do. To live is to take an occasional risk. But know this, my friend; I’m here, and I’ll never let anyone abuse you again. All you have to do- is trust me.”

The tiny being seemed frozen for a time, before finally raising its head and peering through snarled skeins of golden curls.

“Trust me,” the former Jedi repeated, backing off enough to allow the trembling creature some semblance of a choice.

Slowly – very, very slowly – one grubby hand moved forward and grasped Obi-Wan’s sleeve, pulling gently, as if fearful of offering offense, before the entire body, still on its knees, inched forward and a pale face, badly scarred, emerged from the fall of hair to touch trembling lips to the young man’s hand. “Trust . . . you.” The voice was broken and breathy, as if pushed through damaged vocal chords, but the words were clear enough and absolutely heartbreaking.

Obi-Wan sighed and ducked his head, but not quickly enough to conceal the glimmer of tears in downcast eyes. “It’s all right, Chalk’ri,” he murmured. “Please take Scoundrel to the stable and cool him down.”

“Yes, m’lord,” came the answer, in that same strange, rough voice as small, grimy hands collected the stallion’s reins. It appeared that there would be no acknowledgement of the prince of Telos; though it was obvious that the tiny individual wanted very much to please Obi-Wan, it simply couldn’t find the fortitude to behave as requested.

Until, in the act of turning and leading the stallion away, the head beneath the tumble of curls suddenly lifted, allowing huge liquid eyes to rise to touch the prince’s face and one tentative hand to reach up and sketch a minimal tug on a non-existent forelock.

Xanatos nodded an acknowledgement of the gesture, and pulled Obi-Wan back into his arms as the tiny figure led the massive pegyro away. “Still saving the galaxy, one tot at a time, hmm? Isn’t he a little young to be a stable hand?”

Obi-Wan blinked quickly, as if trying to dislodge a foreign object from his eye. “That ‘tot’,” he answered, “is an eighteen year old human male. When Garen found him, in a biolab on Ithor, he’d been imprisoned in a 1-meter cage for most of his life. His spine,” – he paused and drew a deep, ragged breath – “is permanently twisted. He was part of a ‘scientific’ study, to assess the adaptability of the human body. Torture, in the name of science. Beaten, brutalized, starved, maimed, sexually assaulted, mutilated, used like a lab animal; yet, he survived, Xan. In spite of all that, he survived.”

Xanatos closed his eyes, and buried his face in his bondmate’s hair. “I’m sorry, Love. Sorry that I can’t fix everything for you, make everything all right. Defeat the darkness, and free all the children that have been tortured and maimed by it. But I can’t. I can’t even provide adequate care for all the strays you bring home.” He drew a deep trembling breath. “That child is beyond help, Obi-Wan. Is it right to give him false hope, and to squander resources to care for him while others who could be helped are left out there in the darkness?”

The younger man turned to look up into his lover’s eyes, and Xan almost flinched away from the pain he read in his bondmate’s expression. “That ‘child’ is me, Xan,” he said softly. “Not physically, of course, but emotionally, spiritually. That’s what I would have become – a pathetic, twisted shell of what I once was, if you hadn’t rescued me. I won’t turn him away, or others like him. I can’t; don’t you see that . . .”

Abruptly, Xanatos gathered his spouse into his arms, and soothed him with gentle hands. “Shhhh, Love. I _do_ see. I really do, and I’m sorry for being such a . . . .” His smile was tremulous, “cuck-socking sunuvabish. Forgive me?”

A flash of mischief flared in aquamarine eyes, which was at the top of Xan’s list of favorite Kenobi-isms, as he termed such expressions. “Forgive you, huh? Well,I might be persuaded, with a bit of . . .”

“Why, Lord Kenobi,” Xan replied with a deliberately roguish grin, “are you suggesting a little slap and tickle?”

“Depends,” answered Obi-Wan, reaching up to catch his lover’s earlobe between kiss-swollen lips.

“On?”

The lips moved up, to nuzzle at the delicate whorls of the ear, and Xanatos' eyes were suddenly dark with lust and desire. “On who gets to slap,” whispered the younger man, “and who gets to tickle.”

The Telosian prince attempted, without much success, to stifle a low groan. “Lumi’s waiting in my office, with the latest intel report from Bothawai.”

“Oh, poor baby,” crooned Obi-Wan, circling the swollen hardness of his groin against Xan’s hip to make sure that his lover understood what he was sacrificing, while simultaneously lifting a muscled thigh to stroke the huge bulge that was making his lover’s pants increasingly uncomfortable. “A sovereign’s work is never done.”

Xan gulped and fought for breath, and slid both hands beneath the waistband of his bondmate’s pants to stroke the smoothness of silken skin. “Now who’s the cuck-socking sunuvabish?” he managed to gasp.

Obi-Wan surged forward and took his lover’s mouth, demanding and getting entrance to the velvet sweetness within, before stepping back and looking up from beneath spiky lashes, with a smile guaranteed to melt duranium. “Tonight, my prince,” he whispered, “I promise to be the biggest – and the best - cuck-socker you’ve ever known.”

Any ordinary couple, with even the tiniest modicum of self-consciousness, would have been startled into a show of embarrassment at being interrupted at such a private moment, and would have reacted to the unnecessarily loud, flagrantly feigned throat clearing, followed by a sharp “Ahem”, that announced a new arrival on the scene, as if to a bucket of ice water poured over rising passion. But prince and consort, with the aplomb usually expected from royal personages, simply exchanged intimate smiles before turning to greet their visitor.

“Mira, Mira,” piped a breathless young voice, as a tiny whirlwind of motion surged forward from the edge of the terrace, “ya know what?”

Healer Soljan leaned forward, bracing hands on knees to put herself face to face with young Ciara. “What, Luv?”

Tiny white teeth worried a sweet, bee-stung lower lip as the girl paused to arrange her thoughts. “My papa’s getting . . . kinky.”

“Is he now?” Mira’s eyes sparkled with glee.

The child nodded, face solemn. “My Daddy says so.”

The healer looked up in time to see Obi-Wan roll his eyes. 

“And ya know what else?”

“No,” laughed Mira, “but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“My Daddy has a . . . a t’too, on his sweet ass.”

“I know,” said the healer, conspiratorial grin growing broader. “I’ve seen it.”

“Eeeeyooo!” replied the child, mouth and nose pursed charmingly.

“Indeed.” 

“And Papa wants to . . . to slap and tickle Daddy, though I don’t know why. Do you think he’s been naughty?”

Unable to contain it any longer, Mira burst into a bright riff of laughter. “I think you can bet on it, Sweetie.”

She then straightened and confronted the bondmates, who, by this time, were looking more like recalcitrant adolescents than grown men. “When are you two going to learn,” she demanded, still grinning, “that this little urchin both hears . . . and _hears_? Unless you’d like to take a stab at explaining the magyinns and the mynocks to a four-year-old, I suggest you work on your shielding.”

Obi-Wan and Xan exchanged slow glances, and the healer wondered, not for the first time, just how much emotion and information they packed into those wordless communications.

Enough apparently to decide which of them would speak. “Hello, Mira,” said Xanatos. “Do you have a reason for being here, or did you just need practice in being annoying?”

She smiled, not bothering to try to conceal her smug satisfaction. “You, oh mighty one, are being summoned. A courier has just arrived from Alderaan, and Luminara is getting more livid by the moment.”

“And they sent you out looking for me? Turning bloodhound in your dotage, Mira?”

The tiny Bimar chose to ignore him, and turned her attention to her erstwhile patient. “I still don’t know what you see in him,” she remarked. “He’s such a clod.”

Obi-Wan grinned. “But he’s a sexy clod.”

The shrill echo was almost predictable. “Papa is a s. . .”

“Ciara!” snapped Xanatos, lifting a cautionary finger. “Enough.”

“But . . .”

“Ciara,” said Obi-Wan, more gently, but with even greater effect. “Enough.”

The little girl was forced to content herself with a wounded pout, but the sheer power of her displeasure was incredible as it touched the hearts of both her parents, stirring feelings of guilt and remorse, entirely unwarranted and illogical, of course, but real nevertheless. The two men once more traded glances, both conceding that this tiny slip of a girl would prove to be a formidable power to be reckoned with when she was older.

Mira Soljan continued to smile, enjoying seeing two large, vigorously healthy egos humbled by such a tiny manipulator, but the joy was, at best, superficial, masking a much deeper, almost infinite vista of cold dread.

“Back on topic,” said Obi-Wan, “what are you doing here, Mira?”

She held up an infusion injector. “Chasing down my reluctant patient,” she answered. “You were due in the infirmary this morning, you know.”

“I was busy,” he replied easily, favoring her with the smile that had bailed him out of trouble throughout his lifetime.

She chuckled. “I haven’t used a needle on you in twenty years, Obi-Wan, and you still don’t trust me.”

The smile grew warmer. “I figure you’re just biding your time.”

She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Your choice, Luv. Either you stand still for the injector, or . . .” Her grin took on a distinctively diabolical slant, “we can bare that charming tattoo, and I can use it for target practice with old-fashioned syringes.”

Xanatos turned to his mate with a sympathetic smile. “Eager as I am to, um, renew my territorial rights, I prefer to do it in private.” He quickly stole a kiss, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Tonight, when I make you mine all over again, just like the first time.”

“Every time,” breathed Obi-Wan, “is as sweet as the first.”

“Come, Poppet,” called Xanatos, after one last slow, lingering kiss. “Since I’ve been gone for three whole days, it’s just possible that I might have brought home a surprise or two.”

The little girl launched herself into his arms, radiant with anticipation. “One or two, Papa? Big or little? Will I like it or . . .”

Obi-Wan and Mira exchanged smiles as the child’s voice and her father’s indulgent laughter faded into the distance.

But her smile was short-lived. “You can’t continue to avoid your treatments, Obi-Wan,” she said sternly, reaching up to place the infuser at the side of his throat. “I know your symptoms are increasing. How long do you think you can continue to conceal them, if you behave like a spoiled child?”

He didn’t answer for a while, his eyes downcast and shadowed. “The treatments are beginning to bother me,” he said finally. “Nausea, dizziness, severe headache.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she snapped, adjusting the dial on the infuser. “I may be totally useless in finding a cure for you, but I can, at least, keep you comfortable.” Her voice trembled, and broke on the last word.

With a deep sigh, Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head. “Stop, Mira,” he whispered. “Please. You know this isn’t your fault. The decision, and everything that came after, was my choice. And it hurts me to see you eating yourself alive, with guilt.”

She looked down, up, around, anywhere but into his eyes. “You know I’d never hurt you deliberately. But I . . .”

“Gave me my most precious gift,” he interrupted firmly. “Two of them, actually. Without you, I’d never have had Ciara, and I never would have had my life with Xan.” He ducked his head, and forced her to meet his gaze. “I don’t think I can ever thank you enough.”

She buried her face against his chest, and clinched her hands in the soft fabric of his tunic. “It cost you too much,” she murmured. 

But he was not going to allow her to cling to her conclusion.

“Mira, look at me. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, she wiped her eyes, and looked up to study his face. “Hear this, Mira, and understand me. If I had known – beyond all doubt – that I would waken after Ciara’s birth, and be allowed to see her, to hold her, only once, for only a moment, it still would have been enough. The joy I’ve known in my life, from her and from Xan, makes up for everything else. Everything. Do you understand?”

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Every word.”

With a visible effort, she resumed her professional demeanor, re-adjusted the infuser, and once more placed it against his throat. He winced slightly, as a new, more potent concoction flowed into his bloodstream.

“How are the seizures?” she asked, closing her eyes and reaching out through the Force to examine his vital functions.

“Manageable, mostly.”

“But increasing in strength and frequency,” she said softly. “Right?”

He shrugged slightly. There was little point in voicing an answer that she already knew.

“You’re going to have to tell him, Obi,” she sighed. “And soon. He’s going to notice. If he weren’t so crazy in love with you, he’d have seen it already.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. If you don’t . . .”

“I know, and I will.” He looked up then, apparently lost in thought. “There’s something . . . I have to do one more thing first. Then I’ll tell him. I swear it.”

She stepped back then, and took a moment to compose herself. “Soon, my love. It must be soon. We’re running out of time.”

“Thanks, Mira. Love you.”

She closed her eyes, and fought for breath. “I love you, too, Baby.”

She managed to walk away, only slightly less than steady.

Obi-Wan moved to the terrace railing, picked up Xan’s discarded tabaccré cylinder and relit it before looking up into the fading gold of the evening sky.

“You can come out now,” he said, just loud enough to be heard.

Then he turned and strode up the ramp that followed the edge of the river before angling out over the churning water. Once he reached the small platform at the end of the walkway, he jumped up to sit astride the railing, and stared down at the tumble of rocks below, taking a long drag on the tabaccré stick.

He did not sit undisturbed for long.

Footsteps, running hard, heavy boots, moving faster than should have been possible,

And strong arms, like bands of durasteel, enclosed him, and jerked him from his perch, crushed him against a massive hard body, as bruising lips descended to claim his mouth.

For a time, the Jedi Master was swept into the sweet urgency of the moment, blended with vivid resurrected memories of the past. How had he lived without this? How could he have forgotten the taste, the fragrance, the intoxicating feeling of the lithe body molded against him, fitting perfectly, igniting conflagrations of love and lust and need with just a touch – achingly perfect, endlessly addicting and . . . and . . . completely limp and unresponsive.

Slowly, breathlessly, Qui-Gon lifted his face, and gazed down into the features of his former padawan and cataloged the bruised lips, the cleft of the perfect chin, finger marks against the pale gold jawline, and the sadness reflected in chameleon eyes.

With a deep, hoarse gasp, the Master stepped back, and stood struggling for breath.

“It’s good,” said Obi-Wan gently, “that we got that out of the way.”

Qui-Gon reeled to brace himself against the chest-high railing. “Why didn’t you just tell me?.”

“I _did_ try, you know, but you wouldn’t believe me, Qui-Gon. For all your determination to live in the moment, you’ve never been very good at accepting realities that aren’t as you wish them to be.”

“Anakin. We’re back to talking about Anakin.” The Master allowed just a trace of bitterness to creep into his voice.

“Actually,” replied Obi-Wan, “we’re not. We’re talking about me.”

“You’re going to have to be more direct than that,” said Qui-Gon wearily. “I’m not doing subtle very well these days.”

“Have you realized why I forgave you, Qui-Gon? Have you come to understand it?”

The Master looked up into a cloudless sky, and managed a tiny, rueful laugh. “Because it’s not in your nature to hold on to hatred? Because you’re a better man than that? Because . . .”

Obi-Wan actually laughed. “Oh, puh-leeze! You don’t really believe that banthashit, do you? Of all people, you should know better. I’m no more noble, no more pure of heart than anyone else. The explanation is much simpler.”

Qui-Gon turned then to look at him, to try to read the meaning of expressions he had once understood instinctively, with unwavering certainty.

“I forgave you,” Obi-Wan continued, leaning his forearms atop the platform railing, “because there was, finally, nothing to forgive. You – and the Council – did me a favor, although it took me quite a long time to see it, and realize it.”

“I don’t quite see . . .”

The former Jedi’s eyes sparked suddenly, as he smiled. “That’s because you don’t want to see. You’re still thinking of Xan and my life after the Jedi as some kind of consolation prize. Like he won second place – behind you – in some kind of galactic ‘Win a Place in Kenobi’s Life Sweepstakes’. But you’re wrong. You’ve always been wrong.”

Qui-Gon stared at his former padawan and felt something seize up deep in his heart, as he struggled to understand what he was being told, at the same time that something inside him – something buried deep and not born of Light – rebelled and refused to accept, to concede the possibility that this was a truth that could not be avoided. 

The former padawan turned away and gazed off into the distance, and the Jedi Master got the impression that he was being allowed some measure of privacy in which to handle an intense emotional trauma.

“Xanatos and I,” Obi-Wan said softly, gently, “were meant for each other, Qui-Gon. Our bond was meant to be. If you and the Council had not betrayed me – and I’m sorry, but there’s no other way to phrase it – then he and I would never have found each other. My life with him would never have happened. And I would have spent my entire life, trying to be worthy of the physical affections of the great Qui-Gon Jinn. Trying to measure up, but always falling short. Always feeling like a failure, a disappointment.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, and tried to swallow the knot in his throat, while compelling his heart to resume its customary rhythm, while some small part of his consciousness wondered how his body could continue to function at all, when his life had just lost every shred of meaning. “You were never a failure. You were . . .”

“Stop!” said the younger man firmly. “I don’t want to hear it, mainly because I’ve come to realize, after many years of contemplation, that you really never knew what you were doing. In your own way, you were as much a victim as I was.” He took a deep breath. “The Jedi failed us both, Master, but they failed themselves, most of all.”

“And they’ve paid for it,” Qui-Gon said quickly.

“Yes.”

The Master moved closer to his former apprentice, his eyes huge and hungry, and seeking to devour beloved, familiar features. “Do you know how hard this is?” he whispered. “I look at you, at the man you’ve become, and I see what should have been mine. I see a daughter, who could have . . .”

“No, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan said quickly, raising a hand to forestall the Master’s outpouring of grief. “Don’t do this, to either of us. I don’t wish to be cruel, or to hurt you needlessly. I had hoped you’d have figured this out for yourself, so it wouldn’t be necessary for me to be so harsh. But . . .”

“Just say it,” snapped the Master, “and be done with it.”

Obi-Wan nodded, and looked down at the hands he clasped over the balustrade. “Ciara is the personification of our love – mine and Xan’s. I would not . . .” He paused, and it was obvious that it was difficult for him to continue. But continue he finally did, speaking quickly. “I’m sorry, but I would not have borne a child, for you. The bond that formed between us wasn’t natural, Qui-Gon. It was a desperate attempt, on my part, to prove myself good enough, strong enough, to be worthy of your love, and to keep you in the land of the living, and I am grateful to the Force, every day of my life, that it was never completed. The life I have is the life that was meant to be. It took me a couple of years to understand it, to throw off the effects of all those miserable years of dealing with an incomplete bond, and wake up to realize how wonderful my life had become. It took even longer to convince Xan, who was determined to think of himself as someone I’d been forced to settle for.”

Qui-Gon stared at his former padawan, as if he’d never seen him before, as if he were confronting a stranger. And perhaps, he observed, with the portion of his mind that was still capable of coherent thought, that was an accurate description. He recognized the features of the man who had meant so much to him – still meant so much to him – but the person inside was unfamiliar, was cold, and cruel, and saying things that were malicious and vindictive, that could not be . . .

“I _am_ sorry,” the younger man reiterated. “I never meant to hurt you, but this must be clear between us. You _must_ understand.”

“Why?” asked the Master, an ugly suspicion flaring in his mind. “Why must I understand? What . . .?”

“Did you mean what you said?” The question came hard and fast, like a fist through cobwebs, knocking down walls and reservations.

“About what?”

“At the house, the day you arrived. Do you remember what you said?”

“About what, specifically. As I recall, we all said many things that day.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “Don’t be disingenuous, Master. It doesn’t suit you.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, to focus his thoughts and try to dispel the terrible ache that pounded in his temples. “Sorry, I seem to be a bit distracted. I’ll have to ask you to remind me.”

“You said you’d do anything,” replied Obi-Wan, very softly, “to make it up to me. Did you mean it?”

The Master turned to study the former knight’s face, looking for some indication of where the conversation was going. “Yes,” he said finally. “I did mean it.”

“Be sure,” Obi-Wan countered, as the first golden rays of sunset flare on the western horizon. “It’s important, and I have to be sure it isn’t just lip service.”

Qui-Gon stood straight, and assumed the dignified posture he had worn for so many years as a Jedi Master. “I have made many mistakes in my life, Obi-Wan, and I have compromised myself in many ways. But I still do not deal in ‘lip service’.”

The younger man’s smile was tremulous and enchanting. “Sorry, but I have to be sure.”

“What is it you want from me?”

Obi-Wan rocked back on his heels, and buried his face against his arms, searching for the right words. When he spoke, his voice was muffled, and very soft, but clear enough, for all that. “I want you to save my bondmate.”

“What?” Qui-Gon’s response was sharp, unbelieving. “What did you say?”

The younger man lifted his head, allowing the Master to read the multiple layers of pain in luminous eyes. “I want you to save Xan. If you really mean it – if you really want to make it up to me – that’s what I want from you.”

“And how exactly do you propose that I do that?” Qui-Gon’s tone was not quite sarcastic, but it was close.

“I haven’t told him about my condition,” Obi-Wan explained, “because I know how he’s going to react. He’s going to blame himself.”

“Obi-Wan,” said the Master harshly, “you’re . . . you’re going to . . .”

“Die.” Obi-Wan finished the sentence, apparently unperturbed. “Yes, I know.”

“You’re going to die, because you gave him a daughter. So maybe he _should_. . .”

“No, Qui-Gon.” There wasn’t a single nuance of uncertainty in the younger man’s response. “I’m going to die because I chose to give us a daughter. Xan never knew about the risk. If he had, he never would have agreed to the pregnancy. And, if he could, he would offer his life for mine. I know that.”

Qui-Gon huffed a deep breath. “So, according to you, he’s become this paragon of virtue, your perfect bondmate. In that case, why should he need to be ‘saved’?”

“Paragon?” Obi-Wan echoed, with a tiny smile. “Hardly. He’s still Xan, and he still holds tight to his shadows. They’re a part of him, a part of who he is. He’s learned to control them, to keep them reined in, but they’re still there. And, if he’s overwhelmed with guilt and remorse – when I’m gone – I don’t know if he’ll be able to resist the darkness. I believe that I can convince him, in the time I have left, that I have no regrets, that he has given me a beautiful, joyous life, and that we’ll be together again, in the Force. I believe that I can show him that, to honor our love, he must stay in the Light and bring up our daughter. But, if he should fall, it could change everything, destroy everything. In his heart, he’s a beautiful man, meant to be mine. But, when I’m gone, I need to know that there is someone strong enough to remind him of his promises, to support him, in the darkest nights and in the loneliest hours. Someone to help him reject the temptations of the Dark.”

“And you think I can do that? You think he’ll allow me to do that?” Qui-Gon gave an ugly, snide little laugh. “Want to know what I think? I think you’ve lost your mind.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” answered Obi-Wan, turning to look out over the water as the sun sparked strands of copper and gold in his hair. He straightened then, and allowed himself a small sigh. “Just forget it. I knew it was a lot to ask. I’ll . . .”

“No,” said Qui-Gon quickly, once more wrapping his arms around the familiar body. “I didn’t mean that I . . . wouldn’t do as you asked. I just . . .”

Obi-Wan’s entire body was suddenly a study in weariness. “Please don’t do this. I’m not . . .”

“I don’t know how to accept this,” Qui-Gon interrupted. “I don’t know how to let you go.”

Aquamarine eyes swarmed with sudden shadows. “You let me go eighteen years ago, Master.”

“But I held you in my heart,” came the whispered response.

“What do you want me to say, Qui-Gon?” asked the younger man. “I can’t give you what you want. I can’t . . .”

“I want you to be angry,” said the Master, almost snarling. “I want you to fight this thing, to refuse to give in to it. I want you to endure.”

Obi-Wan’s smile was gentle. “You think I haven’t fought it? I’ve fought for every day I’ve survived, and I’ll go on fighting. But it’s a war I can’t win. My body is slowly shutting down, and I’m getting tired. I need . . . to know that Xan will have someone to rely on. If you can’t do this . . .”

“I’ll do it,” said Qui-Gon suddenly, ignoring the uncertainty that twisted in his guts. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, Master.” The voice was soft, like a caress retrieved from old memories.

“I love you, Obi-Wan.” It was a cry of desperation, despite being no more than a whisper.

“I know.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

EPILOG

 

Excerpt from the journal of Qui-Gon Jinn. 

_  


Valuri Outpost 6 – Academy Base  
12th cycle, 6th rotation of Julei’dalk

 

_Five years. How can it possibly be five years since that final day – the day when he was finally persuaded to give up his long struggle, and surrender to the Force? Strange that none of us wanted to let him go – but neither did we want to watch him endure another day of suffering. Sentient spirits are frequently conflicted, I think._

_I have never written about that time – those days; I suppose I was never willing to dwell on what happened. But the time is right now, I think. Some things should not be forgotten, and life is too uncertain in these perilous times to risk the loss of such memories._

_Obi-Wan managed to hold on, to fight the deterioration taking place within his body for more than two years after that fateful afternoon by the river, and, with the help of the tiny Bimar healer who loved him as if he had been a child of her loins, he remained strong and bright and functional until just two lunar cycles before the end. Though his symptoms continued to multiply and intensify, he battled through them and somehow managed to offer solace to those who could only stand and watch. Despite living with growing pain and weakness, he never lost his laughter or the sparkle in his eye. Somehow, his presence in the Force grew ever more radiant, burning with almost ferocious intensity, in the same manner that a star will flare to almost painful brightness in the last moments before it consumes itself in cataclysmic implosion. He grew frailer with each day, until his skin seemed almost translucent, but he lost nothing of his beauty, becoming almost transcendent with the Light he exuded as the end approached. He was, until that final day, my Obi-Wan - my greatest joy . . . and my greatest sadness._

_I came to accept it in the end – the truth of his bond to Xanatos, the rightness of it – but I never learned how to give up grieving over what I had lost. But the vision of the two of them together – riding, laughing, sharing quiet moments with their daughter, sparring, chatting with friends, preparing a meal, or simply gazing into each other’s eyes – provided ample proof of the accuracy of Obi-Wan’s claim; they truly were meant to be together. And it became ever more obvious as Obi-Wan began to lose the battle to cling to his strength and his independence. When he was, at last, rendered physically helpless, it was Xan who saw to his every need, who fed him, and bathed him, and dressed him, who held him when the pain grew intolerable, and soothed him to sleep._

_I have never witnessed a more touching testament to the power of love._

_Obi-Wan was right, of course, about the reaction of his bondmate. Xanatos was devastated when he learned that he would lose the only true love of his life, and that it was a result of the pregnancy that had produced his daughter – devastated and furious, and then overwhelmed with guilt, because the object of his fury was the very person who was also the other half of his soul. It was not a pleasant period, and I don’t think Xan ever managed to completely forgive himself for wasting some of the precious time they had remaining while he struggled to find his way through his rage._

_It was, I think, a near thing – the prospect of losing himself in Darkness, in his search for vengeance. But ultimately, he found the strength to resist; I would like to think that I had some small role in holding him to the path of Light, but honesty compels me to admit that it was more his fidelity to the promise he made to his lost mate, and the love he held for his beautiful daughter that enabled him to overcome terrible temptations, than anything anyone else might have done. He came to me occasionally – for guidance, or so he said – but I think it was really only to share his pain. That was, in the end, the only thing that held the two of us together; that, and promises made to a stubborn young spirit that would not be denied._

_He lived long enough to hold his daughter on his lap as she blew out six candles on a birthday cake, but not long enough to show her how to build her own lightsaber, which happened when she was nine; he survived to stand as witness to the bonding of Garen Muln and Rhimbo R’ Equé – a joyful celebration that saw the handsome blonde member of the wedding party signal a halt to the proceedings just prior to the ceremony in order to sweep a startled, laughing Obi-Wan into his arms in order to steal one deep, extremely thorough kiss, as a type of final fling prior to entering into the bond that would last a lifetime - but he did not live long enough to see Garen fall in battle during the first engagement between the fledgling Rebel Alliance and Imperial Storm Troopers on Ord Binur, and I am thankful that he was not forced to face that. He survived long enough to dance with Luminara Unduli at the celebration of her wedding to General Ph’rell Torampp, leader of the Agamarian resistance movement, but he did not live to welcome the baby boy that was born a year later. And he hung on long enough to be intimately involved in creating a new kind of Code, for a new kind of Jedi Order – a Code that rejected all forms of political alliance and emphasized the exercise of compassion and intimate connections between all members of the Jedi community and the people they were sworn to serve, but he did not live to see the formation of this academy, where the new philosophy was brought to life. And he lived long enough to foresee the love that would dominate his daughter’s future, the love of the son of Anakin Skywalker. Even today, I am unsure of how he felt about that, as he elected to keep those emotions to himself._

_It was winter when he died, the day of the first snowfall of the season, and he was surrounded by those who loved him. He wakened slowly that morning, and I think he knew immediately what the day would bring. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for several days, as his Force presence fluctuated, but there was only clarity in his eyes as he struggled to consciousness that morning. Though his bedroom was crowded with an astonishing assortment of medical equipment, he was unencumbered by tubes or needles or IV lines or breathing masks, having refused all such measures to extend his life._

_Obi-Wan was tired – tired enough to accept the fact that it was time to release his grip on life and allow the Force to claim him._

_One by one, those who had been intimately involved in the final years of his existence stepped forward, each knowing that he had finally exhausted all his tomorrows. Xan hovered nearby, fighting to maintain his serenity and to refrain from howling his frustration and rage at the callous brutality of fate, and Ciara was nestled against Obi-Wan’s side, tucked close and safe in his embrace._

_I stood in the shadows, watching the people he loved trying to find the right words to tell him what he had meant to them; no one seemed to succeed, most confining themselves to a simple declaration of love and the sharing of tears._

_Finally, there were only the two bondmates and their daughter – and me. It was time to let him go – to say good-bye – and I have come to realize that nothing will ever be as painful as that moment._

_I sat on the edge of his bed, and clasped his hand – the hand that I had trained to build and wield a lightsaber, to become a lethal weapon in unarmed combat – the hand that had given me comfort, and healing, and pleasure, and so much more – the hand that was now only a slender ghost of its former strength. Reverently, humbly, I kissed his palm before cradling his fingers against my chest._

_I reached out then and traced his features one last time with a gentle finger, and he smiled at me, and let me see, in that smile, that, in spite of everything, he loved me still, and I was astonished to discover that coming in second in the ‘Kenobi Sweepstakes’ was apparently enough for me, after all._

_“I love you, Padawan,” I whispered, “and I won’t forget that I have promises to keep.”_

_I gathered him up in my arms and was stricken anew by the frailty of his body, but he was able to turn his head and place a final kiss on my cheek. I managed, somehow, not to sob as I laid him down again and quickly made my way out of the room, leaving him to say his last good-byes in privacy._

_But that was not quite the end. Moments later, Xanatos emerged from the bedroom and whispered something to Healer Soljan which roused her from the semi-fugue state in which she had been sitting since administering to her patient for the last time. She hurried out to the broad porch that looked out on the river, and started to drag furniture from an outdoor storage compartment. I hurried to help her, and, together, we put together a nest of lounge chairs and pillows and thick fluffy blankets. Then she went back inside and, a few minutes later, I heard the heartbroken sobs of a tiny child as she was soothed and carried upstairs by Garen Muln and his bondmate._

_Later, Mira told me about the circumstances of the first bonding of Obi-Wan and Xanatos. She called it ‘the night of magic’ – because that’s what the two of them called it. And it seemed appropriate that this day, this night, should reproduce the setting of those magic moments. Xanatos carried his bondmate, cocooned in downy drifts of coverlets, to the comfortable nest arranged for them on the porch, and settled in, holding Obi-Wan in his lap._

_The silence of the snowfall was soft and perfect, as the prince rocked the two of them in time with some silent cadence. They spoke little, having no need for words, occasionally exchanging tiny kisses and gentle smiles, and nuzzling against each other, as if to share the same skin._

_The day wore on, and the silence deepened, and, just as the light began to fade from a sky of polished silver, a delicate chiming rose on a faint stirring in the air – and there was suddenly a glow of warmth, the gentle rainbow radiance of a cloud of ice fyries as they swarmed through the lavender twilight and serenaded the silent lovers with their tender melody. At the same moment, in the shadows of the surrounding forest, tiny creatures of the night, and of the winter, crept forward, unable to understand the meaning of the soft summons that called to them within the resonance of the Force, but perceiving that it was important that they answer. I closed my eyes, and somehow knew what spoke to them, and knew the history they shared with the principle figures in this drama. They had come forward on such a night many years before – and shared the creation of a miracle. They must now come forth again – and witness its passing, as a deep violet strand of light, invisible to many - but not all - symbolic of a joining that transcended boundaries of reality, pulsed brightly once, twice - before fading into a web of pale strands that slowly dispersed into the night, no longer visible in the physical spectrum at all._

_He died in the arms of his beloved, tasting a final, lingering kiss, and whispering his last words with his last breath. “Love. . . you.” And Xanatos sat through the long vigil of the night, cradling the body that breathed no more._

_We built the pyre – Xan and Garen and I, each of us distracted enough by our grief to enable us to put aside our differences – on the tiny platform that overlooked the river, in the place that he had come to love above all others, dressed him in the fawn-colored suede and creamy silk that suited him so well, and, with the sinking of the sun the next day, performed the simple age-old ritual of farewell. The flames consumed his wasted body quickly, and we allowed the wind to take the ashes, as he would have wanted._

_Except for one small handful. Xanatos seemed embarrassed when he disclosed what he wished to do, but I knew at once that it would be a comfort – for all of us – and I didn’t think our beloved Obi-Wan would object to that._

_Life went on from that point, as the universe continued to turn. Storms raged; stars were born and died; civilizations waxed and waned, and the filthy tumor that was the Empire metastasized and spread its darkness through most of the galaxy, crushing any race or culture that tried to stand against it. The Deep Core was first to succumb, of course; Borleias and Kuat were in no position to offer resistance, having been the scene of prolonged fighting between factions of the clone armies and the so-called Separatist guerillas, who, of course, turned out to be no such thing. What gullible fools we all were – and how easily duped – and what a terrible price we, the Jedi, paid for our short-sightedness. Kashyyyk is now enslaved, after successfully repelling invaders for almost two years; I am told it was an act of treachery that finally brought them down. Corellia continues to be a source of irritation for both Palpatine and his puppet; the world and the individuals it spawns are a stubborn breed; though technically conquered, the Resistance movement there is alive and well and, if not thriving, certainly robust enough to throw a spanner into the workings of the Imperial machine on a regular basis. Some worlds, like lovely Alderaan, elected to adopt co-operative postures, pretending full allegiance to Palpatine and his minions, while actually providing massive support to the Rebel Alliance. Of Commenor, little is known; it has been ominously silent behind a blockade of droid control ships for many cycles now, but long-range sensors suggest a massive biological/chemical contamination of that once lovely world. Other worlds have suffered similar fates – enough of them to convince most of the remaining unaligned planets to give up any notions of repelling the Empire’s advances or retaining their independence, counting the cost as too dear._

_Most have accepted Palpatine’s yoke of bondage without a single shot being fired, as the Imperials have demonstrated neither reluctance nor remorse over the use of weapons of mass destruction._

_And we, the remnants of the Jedi and the subjects of Xanatos Aji, prince of Telos, stood quietly on our secluded little sanctuary world and watched it happen and thought we finally understood the dimensions of the evil that stood back and watched us in turn – and bided its time._

_We were wrong._

_Great care had been taken by all involved to make certain that no hint of the presence of former Jedi or other Force sensitives or, in particular, the enormously gifted children of Anakin Skywalker was ever whispered beyond the boundaries of Arbory, and, although it is impossible to be completely sure, I am still convinced that the effort to restrict that knowledge was successful. But the story of the love affair between the prince of Telos and his ex-Jedi consort was something else entirely. The tale had taken on mythical proportions, and the depth of the love between the two was spoken of with great reverence, on a galactic scale, proving, I suppose, that even the hardest of hearts can be touched by a romantic epic of star-crossed lovers._

_Obi-Wan had always expected that, sooner or later, Anakin would come for him, harboring old grudges that could only be satisfied with copious amounts of blood._

_He was right, of course, but none of us realized at the time just how right he would prove to be. When he died, after much painful discussion, we decided that the fact of his death must be publicized, believing that the news of his passing would satisfy Anakin’s dark cravings. Unfortunately, we all underestimated the depth of Lord Vader’s thirst for revenge; we made the mistake of expecting rational behavior from one who was consumed with irrational passions. It was not enough, we learned, that Obi-Wan was dead; it would only be enough – maybe – if everything and everyone he loved were destroyed with him, with one particular prize being preserved as a gift for the Emperor._

_Anakin – who had never discovered the existence of his own children – had learned that Obi-Wan had a daughter, and the discovery had renewed the dark fire in the Sith Lord’s black heart. He would exterminate all those who had been loyal to Kenobi, and he would possess the child of the usurper’s loins, bending her to his will and to the service of darkness. Thus his revenge would be complete, when the moment was right._

_It was almost three years after that unforgettable winter afternoon, when we bade final farewell to our beloved Obi-Wan, when Xanatos and I received a communiqué from the co-ordinator of his clandestine intelligence network, advising that Vader’s fleet had departed from the massive Imperial base on Obroa-Skai two days earlier, amid confusing rumors and conflicting clues about its destination, but data collected from formerly trustworthy deep-cover agents indicated that the official word about a mission to investigate rumors of a newly-constructed shipyard on the fringe of the Cron Drift was nothing more than deliberate misdirection._

_The fleet was actually on its way to Arbory and would arrive in eleven days._

_There was no real evidence to corroborate that conclusion, but the risk was too great. We dared not ignore the possibility that our information was correct._

_The time had come to deal with the consequences of the past._

_Fortunately, we were not completely unprepared, thanks largely to Obi-Wan’s precognitive visions, and the determination and logistic genius of the prince of Telos. Xanatos, ever mindful of his duty to his subjects and – even more important – the legacy left to him by the love of his life, had prepared an alternative site for our little colony – smaller, more remote, and not quite so lovely, but ideal in other ways. He had expended enormous sums of energy and effort and large portions of his personal fortune in constructing shelters and stockpiling supplies and building passive defenses including shielding that was virtually undetectable, even on a planetary scale._

_It was located on one of a cluster of small moons in a system so remote and so unpopulated that it had no name, only a numeric designation – CX5477 – just light minutes away from the vast darkness of the Unknown Regions._

_During the next four days, I had good cause to remember all the characteristics I had so admired in the young boy who had been my second apprentice. Xanatos was a dynamo, organizing, planning, guiding, cajoling when necessary and browbeating when cajoling didn’t work. He eased fears, and soothed frayed tempers, and bolstered flagging spirits, solved problems and found solutions, and, in the end, he accomplished what he set out to do. So efficient were his methods, and so exacting his blueprints for progress, that the entire colony was ready for transport in record time, early enough to evade even the speediest of long-range imperial scouts. Even most of the fruits of the recent harvests were secured in the bins of two massive cargo carriers, which would be tethered to the transport ships._

_On the sixth day, the two of us – with Princess Ciara – stood on the platform built over the river as the first slice of liquid sun eased its way over the eastern horizon, painting the water below with a patina of shimmering copper that always reminded me of the color of my beloved’s hair. Xan’s eyes were dark with memory, so I was fairly sure that he noticed the similarity as well. His daughter stood close against him, his hands on her shoulders, and none of us seemed to find appropriate words to fill the moment._

_Before us, in the exact center of the platform, a tiny geodesic framework was affixed to a stone pediment, and within that framework, there was a perfectly shaped crystal geode, which contained a pulsing flicker of brilliance, surrounding a miniscule pocket of dark matter._

_The last of Obi-Wan’s ashes, contained within a flame of Force energy that would burn forever – as long as the framework around it remained intact._

_We all knew that such a fate was unlikely, but knew also that it would be wrong, somehow, to remove the tiny marker from the magic of that place. What remained of the man he had been was there, in the place he had loved so well._

_He was, after all, beyond the reach of the vengeance that sought to eradicate all traces of his life._

_I spent a few moments reaching out through the Force, seeking that familiar presence, but finding only faint echoes of the connection we once shared. Still, it was enough to assure me that he understood what we were being forced to do and offered his blessing. I opened my eyes to study Xan’s face and realized that he had found what I could not. A deep, abiding peace had settled on his features, and I am still ashamed to admit that I felt a frisson of envy, as I wished I could feel – for one moment – the joy of a bond renewed and reanimated._

_When he opened his eyes and smiled at me, I knew, but I tried to ignore my certainty._

_“It’s time,” I said. “The ships are waiting.”_

_It was unnecessary for him to say it, but he did anyway, to avoid any ambiguity._

_“I’m not going with you.”_

_I opened my mouth to rebuke him – to remind him of his responsibilities – but my harsh words were silenced by the wisdom of a child._

_“Tell Daddy,” said Ciara Kenobi/Aji, in a small, steady voice, “that I will always love him, and that I miss him.”_

_Xan went to his knees then, and gathered the brave little girl to his chest. “My beautiful poppet,” he whispered. “I – we – love you so much, and we both wish we could have been here to watch you grow up. But it isn’t meant to be. I can’t go on without him. I’m sorry to leave you, but I know you’ll be strong. Master Qui-Gon is going to keep you safe, and make sure that you always know how much you are loved. I beg you to understand that I simply can’t leave him here – alone.”_

_“I know, Papa,” she answered. “And I know that both of you are always with me . . . here.” And she touched her hand to her heart, as tears welled in her father’s eyes._

_He stood quickly then, lifting her and holding her close for a moment, before placing her firmly into my arms, and gazing into my eyes. “You saved me . . . for him,” he said. “Now I ask you to save her – for both of us.”_

_I wanted to argue – to threaten – to cajole. But, in the end, I didn’t. I simply clasped his hand and turned and walked away. When last I saw him, he was standing at the platform railing, framed by the rising radiance of morning. Though I saw nothing to indicate it, I have always believed that he was not standing there alone._

_We made our escape in good time, and, sixteen days later, debarked at our new home. Settling in and organizing our new colony was time-consuming and involved much hard physical labor, which turned out to be a blessing. We had little time to spend in conjecture or contemplation._

_Ciara was quiet and introspective in those early days, but she proved repeatedly that she was the daughter of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Xanatos Aji, carrying herself with a dignity far beyond her tender years. And she took comfort in her connection to the Skywalker twins – a connection that would grow and bear sweet fruit in later years._

_It was almost six cycles before we received any intelligence reports from Xan’s clandestine operatives, and I think we had all believed that we were prepared to deal with whatever information might be provided._

_We weren’t, but, in the end, it made no difference._

_We survived – thanks to the foresight and planning and determination of two brilliant young men. Arbory did not._

_I cannot be sure of the course of events that saw the end of that lovely, bucolic world, and there is no way to verify what did or did not happen. As a result of the weapons unleashed there, the planet is now a barren wasteland, poisoned by toxic bio-agents and incapable of supporting life. It is unlikely it will ever recover._

_Xanatos, of course, is dead; I felt him die._

_But I also felt the tremendous rush of joy that touched him in his final moment. I know that he has found what he sought, and they are together now. Forever._

_As for Anakin, it may be that he achieved his fondest desire in that last fiery cataclysm that preceded the distribution of the chemical agents that would scour the planet’s surface of all life – but I don’t really think so. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking – and how remarkable is it that I can even admit that to myself – but I think that, in the end, Anakin lost._

_I choose to believe that, in the grip of his deep, vile hatred, he did not find what he was looking for; he did not succeed in wiping out every trace of the one person he never managed to defeat._

_I choose to believe that, on that barren, desolate world, a small platform still stands, tall and visible in the blackened wasteland, and that, at its center, a tiny flame continues to burn, and that the one inscription – eight small words – is still discernible in the stone base._

_It bears no name, but its meaning is unmistakable for all who ever walked there and felt his presence._

_“The river runs, but the song is silent.”_

_But that is no longer true. Somewhere, I know, Obi-Wan is singing._

 

FINI


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